LIBRARY 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

SANTA  BARBARA 


PRESENTED  BY 
MRS. 

ERIC  SCHMIDT 


v 


POETICAL  WORKS 


OF 


DASTTE  GABKJ.EL  EOSSETTI. 


WITH  MEMOIR  BY 


WILLIAM  L.  KEESE. 


NEW  YORK: 
HURST  &  CO.,  PUBLISHERS. 

122  NASSAU  STREET. 


MEMOIR. 


The  unique  genius,  whose  poetical  works  are  here  offered  to 
the  public,  and  whose  potent  influence  upon  the  world  of  art 
and  letters  is  yet  to  be  fully  realized,  was  early  called  from 
haunting  dreams  of  heart-longing,  and  perhaps  even  in  the 
dawning  of  a  conception  that  awaited  his  matured  powers. 
Fifty-three  years  only  were  his,  when,  in  April,  1882,  his  re- 
•mains  were  laid  in  the  little  church  yard  at  Birchington,  on  the 
Kentish  sea-board. 

The  subject  of  this  memoir  belonged  to  a  remarkable  family. 
His  father,  Gabriel  Rossetti,  was  an  active  participant  in  the 
constitutional  struggle  with  King  Ferdinand  in  1821,  and  his 
name  is  held  in  grateful  memory  in  the  town  of  Vasto  where 
he  was  born ;  not  only  for  his  conscientious  political  attitude, 
but  also  for  his  patriotic  poems  which  excited  great  popular 
enthusiasm.  His  mother  was  Frances  Polidori,  a  connection t? 
of  the  Dr.  Polidori  who  was  Lord  Byron's  fellow  traveler,  and, 
we  believe,  is  still  living.  The  father  died  in  1854.  His  elder 
sister,  Maria  Francesca,  was  the  author  of  "A  Shadow  of 
Dante,"  a  work  revealing  an  intimate  acquaintance  with,  and  a 
sympathetic  appreciation  of,  the  great  Florentine  epic.  His 
younger  brother,  William  Michael,  is  still  well  known  as  a 
poet,  but  his  distinction  in  that  regard  is  eclipsed  by  his  fame 
as  literary  and  art  critic,  his  essays  in  that  department  of 
authorship  being  of  marked  ability.  Of  his  younger  sister, 
Christina  Georgina,  it  is  only  needful  to  remark  that  her 
charming  lyrics  are  familiar  to  countless  households  in  America, 
and  that  Miss  Rossetti's  fame  as  a  poetess  is  held  in  esteem  and 
admiration  second  only  to  that  of  Jean  Ingelow. 

Of  this  gifted  family  Dante  Gabriel,*  the  second  child,  was 
the  most  richly  endowed.  He  was  born  in  London  on  the  I'.th 
of  May,  1828,  and  his  education  was  begun  at  a  private  school: 

*  He  was  christened  Gabriel  Charles  Dante. 
^  »N-      ^4LK      VlJ  <    .   H  **  '      *  Hi    •  ^ »    W '  j 


4  MEMOIR. 

then  he  -went  to  King's  College  School,  where  he  remained 
until  he  was  fifteen,  and  where  the  elements  of  Latin,  French, 
and  German,  were  acquired.  The  Italian  language,  of  course, 
was  familiar  and  easy  to  him.  At  this  period  an  inclination 
towards  painting  so  strongly  manifested  itself,  that  an  arrange- 
ment was  made  for  him  to  enter  an  Art  Academy  at  Blooms- 
bury,  and  thence  he  was  admitted  to  the  Royal  Academy 
Antique  School.  His  evenings  were  employed  in  intellectual 
exercises,  reading  and  translating,  with  now  and  then  a  venture 
in  original  composition.  We  may  note  at  this  point  that  the 
development  of  his  poetic  faculty  was  more  rapid  and  marked 
than  his  progress  in  the  sister  art  of  painting.  "  My  Sister's 
Sleep"  and  "The  Blessed  Damozel"  were  produced  in  his 
nineteenth  year;  the  latter  evinces  an  imagination  so  fine,  and 
is  so  replete  with  spiritual  beauty,  that  we  seek  in  vain  for  its 
parallel  in  the  history  of  precocious  literature.  Bryant  at  the 
same  age  wrote  "  Thanatopsis  ; "  but  though  the  solemn 
pathos  and  grave  import  of  that  noble  poem  are  unique  as  an 
emanation  of  youth,  still  there  is  something  in  the  conception 
and  in  the  white-winged  spirit  of  "The  Blessed  Damozel," 
that  seems  to  invest  it  with  a  poetic  halo,  and  to  give  it  a  sacred 
significance. 

The  childhood  of  the  Rossetti  family,  be  it  said,  was  alto- 
gether exceptional  and  astonishing.  Their  favorite  picture- 
book  seems  to  have  been  Retzsch's  Outlines  from  Hamlet;  and 
while  other  children  were  busy  with  spelling-blocks  and  object 
lessons,  these  tender  aspirants  were  forming  an  acquaintance 
with  Shakespeare  and  Dante.  The  influence  thus  e;uly  begun 
ruled  with  a  "  scepter  of  fascination  "  over  those  young  minds; 
and  in  the  case  of  our  subject  the  sway  augmented  to  the  last. 
It  is  said  that  even  at  the  age  of  five  he  composed  a  rough 
drama  which  was  undoubtedly  an  outcome  of  the  effect  pro- 
duced by  Hamlet. 

A  second  poem  was  written  after  leaving  school,  entitled 
"  Sir  Hugh  the  Heron,"  and  for  the  next  few  years  he  studied 
German  and  Italian  poetry,  and  began  the  translations  which 
were  subsequently  given  to  the  world  as  Dante  and  his  Circle. 
And  now  with  assured  wing  he  dreamed  of  loftier  flights, 
when,  in  1848,  he  raised  the  banner  of  the  Pre  Raphaelite 
Brotherhood. 


MEMOIR.  5 

The  design  of  this  sketch  •will  not  permit  any  exposition  or 
argument  with  regard  to  this  celebrated  art  fraternity.  It  is 
presumed  that  something  is  known  of  the  movement  that 
enlisted  so  many  names  of  eminence;  of  theart  principle  which 
was  its  main-spring;  and  of  the  meritorious  purpose  to  which  it 
was  dedicated.  Let  it  suffice  that,  though  no  revolution  fol- 
lowed the  sincere  examples  of  the  Brotherhood,  the  experi- 
ment was  not  without  its  fruit; for  from  it,  -whatever  the  influ- 
ence it  exerted  on  schools  of  painting,  flowed  a  new  and  im- 
pressive order  of  poetry. 

The  Brotherhood  issued  a  magazine  designed  as  an  organ 
for  their  sentiments.  It  was  named  The  Germ,  and  though 
reaching  but  four  numbers,  contained  much  that  was  remark- 
able both  in  art  and  literature.  In  its  pages  appeared  the 
lyrics  of  Miss  Rossetti;  "The  Blessed  Damozel,"  "Sea 
Limits,"  "My  Sister's  Sleep,"  of  D.  G.  Rossetti,  besides  several 
sonnets.  "W.  M.  Rossetti  and  Coventry  Patmore  were  also 
among  the  contributors,  and  the  illustrations  were  from  the 
pencils  of  Messrs.  Holman  Hunt  and  Madox  Brown;  the  last 
named  artist  was  not  a  member  of  the  Brotherhood,  but  was 
Rossetti's  firm  friend  and  art  counsellor.  One  can  fancy  what 
a  fabulous  price  would  be  paid  now  for  a  complete  set  of  the 
adventurous  journal. 

In  the  years  that  followed,  up  to  1860,  Rossetti  wrote  many 
of  his  most  admired  productions  ;  but  he  did  not  publish,  and 
his  writings  were  known  only  in  manuscript.  But  he  was  only 
23  years  old  when  "  Sister  Helen,"  "  The  Blessed  Dauiozel," 
"My  Sister's  Sleep,"  "  Sea  Limits,"  and  "Hand  and  Soul," 
(the  last  a  prose  composition  of  fine  force,)  •were  produced; 
while  in  painting  he  had  given  some  striking  examples.  Add 
to  this  accomplishment  the  labor  suggested  by  his  translations; 
the  minute  attention  bestowed  upon  every  conception  whether 
of  poetry  or  painting;  the  patience  and  zeal  with  which  all 
execution  was  wrought ; — and  an  idea  may  be  formed  of  the 
conscientious  industry  of  this  young  genius. 

Previous  to  1860  he  had  made  the  acquaintance  of  William 
Morris,  Algernon  Charles  Swinburne,  and  the  future  artist, 
Burne-Jones.  The  influence  of  the  three  poets  will  not  soon 
pass  away  from  from  the  realm  of  English  literature.  The 
Sonnets  of  ITw  House  of  Life  will  live  to  exalt  our  better 


6  MEMOIR. 

nature  ;  the  lingering  cadence  of  "The  Earthly  Paradise" 
•will  not  cease  to  charm;  and  the  straining  eye  will  follow 
many  a  Ballad  flight  into  new  regions  of  melodious  song. 

Mr.  Rossetti  married  in  1860.  His  wife  was  Elizabeth 
Eleanor  Siddall,  and  her  lovely  presence  during  their  brief 
wedded  life  was  the  inspiration  of  a  number  of  his  most  beau- 
tiful paintings.  She  died  in  1862,  and  the  shock  of  her  sud- 
den death  brought  a  sorrow  not  to  be  expressed  in  words. 
From  the  dark  cloud  of  this  bereavement  loomed  the  image  of 
despair.  Life  seemed  bereft  of  aim  and  hope.  With  the  loss 
of  that  companionship  all  else  seemed  vain,  and  in  the  grave 
of  his  wife  he  buried  the  manuscripts  which  were  the  sole  re- 
cord of  his  poetical  achievements.  "He  buried  with  her," 
says  one  of  his  biographers,  "  not  only  his  love,  but  his  dreams, 
his  fame."  Through  the  advice  of  friends,  who  deemed  the 
sacrifice  too  great,  the  manuscripts  were  restored  to  light  after 
a  lapse  of  eight  years. 

In  1870  the  poet's  first  volume  was  given  to  the  \vorld.  It 
was  received  with  a  kind  of  startled  wonder;  the  beaut}-, 
pathos,  and  lofty  spirit  of  the  poems  revealing  the  existence 
of  a  powerful  and  gifted  singer.  It  is  not  the  purpose  of  this 
article  to  enter  upon  a  review  of  the  poetical  works  of  Dante 
Gabriel  Rossetti.  To  those  who  seek  exhaustive  treatment  of 
his  creations  as  they  appear  in  pen  and  pencil,  we  commend 
the  rucjut  work  of  William  Sharp — a  volume  that  leaves  no 
question  unanswered. 

It  is  melancholy  to  think  of  Rossetti's  death  in  full  intel- 
lectual maturity.  The  insomnia  which  for  years  had  afflicted 
him  he  endeavored  to  subdue  by  the  use  of  chloral.  A  fit  of 
illness  followed,  and  it  was  some  time  before  his  native  vigor 
rallied  from  the  prostration.  For  several  years  thereafter  his 
health  seemed  restored,  and  he  labored  with  wonted  industry 
at  the  paintings  with  which  his  mind  was  filjed.  But  his 
strength  never  fully  returned,  and  the  insomnia  continued. 
During  this  unhappy  period,  however,  the  great  pictures  of 
"  Dante's  Dream  "  and  "  Proserpina  "  were  completed,  and 
the  poems  of  "  The  White  Ship  "  and  "The  King's  Tragedy  " 
were  written.  He  succumbed  at  last  to  bodily  disease,  and 
with  tranquil  spirit  and  clear  mind  awaited  the  end.  It  came 
on  Easter  Sunday,  April,  1882. 


MEMOIR.  7 

Some  reference  may  now  be  made  to  the  poems  contained  in 
the  present  volume,  and  the  thoughtful  reader  will  wouder  at 
the  genius  that  produced  such  works  as  "  The  Blessed  Damo- 
zel,"  "  Troy  Town,"  "  Eden  Bower,"  "  Sister  Helen,"  "Jen- 
ny," and  "  A  Last  Confession,"  Of  "  The  Blessed  Damozel  " 
we  have  spoken  more  than  once,  but  we  return  to  it  to  point 
out  a  few  of  its  entrancing  lines.  What  can  be  lovelier  than 
the  simile  in  the  first  verse — 


"  Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 

Of  waters  stilled  at  even." 
And  the  spiritual  suggesliveness  of  the  lines  in  the  third — 

"  The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone 
From  that  still  look  of  hers." 

And  few  things  to  us  are  comparable  in  fine  imaginative  fervor 
with  the  whole  seventh  stanza — 

"Around  her,  lovers,  newly  met 

'Mid  deathless  love's  acclaims, 
.Spoke  evermore  among  themselves 

Their  heart-remembered  names ; 
And  the  souls  mounting  vp  to  God 

Went  by  her  like  thin  flames." 


But  the  whole  poem  might  be  quoted,  for  every  verse  has  a 
beauty  of  it  own, 

"  Troy  Town  "  will  appeal  to  all  lovers  of  the  Greek  myths, 
and  "  Eden  Bower"  will  be  read  again  and  again,  for  the 
subtle  grace  and  power  with  which  the  old  tradition  is  rendered. 
"  Sister  Helen"  is  terrible  in  its  weird  consummation  of  a 
vengeance,  but  so  exciting  to  the  imagination  that  one  seems, 
indeed,  to  read  it  by  a  supernatural  light.  "A  Last  Con- 
fessiou"  has  all  the  intensify  of  Browning,  in  its  vivid  present- 
ment of  a  consuming  remorse.  The  many  lyrics  will  charm 
by  their  themes  and  richness  of  expression;  and  the  Sonnets, 
which  by  many  are  deemed  the  crown  and  culmination  of  the 
poet's  genius,  will  repay,  by  their  deep  sincerity,  spiritual  ele- 
vation, and  felicitous  command  of  language,  the  most  atten- 
tive and  thoughtful  perusal. 


8  MEMOIR. 

Lot  us  say  in  conclusion,  that  the  present  writer  has  made  no 
attempt  to  celebrate  the  achievements  of  Rossetti  in  the  do- 
main of  painting;  that  being  a  subject  on  which  he  is  incom- 
petent to  speak;  his  object  having  been  simply  to  preface  this 
edition  of  the  poet's  works  with,  a  suitable  memoir  of  the 
author.  W.  L.  K. 


CONTENTS. 


POEMS. 


The  Blessed  Damozel, 17 

Love's  Nocturu, 21 

Troy  Town 26 

The'  Burden  of  Nineveh, .  .29 

Edeu  Bower, 34 

Ave 41 

The  Staff  and  Scrip, 44 

A  Last  Confession, 50 

Dante  at  Verona, 66 

Jenny 81 

The  Portrait, 92 

Sister  Helen 95 


Stratton  Water, 104 

The  Stream's  Secret, 109 

The  Card-Dealer 116 

My  Sister's  Sleep, 118 

Aspecta  Medusa, 120 

A  New  Year's  Burden,  .  .120 

Even  So, 121 

An  Old  Song  Ended,. . .  121 

Down  Stream 122 

Wellington's   Funeral, ...  124 

World's  Worth, 126 

The  Bride's  Prelude,. . .  127 


TRANSLATIONS. 


THREE  TRANSLATIONS  FROM 
FRANCOIS  VILLON  • 

The  Ballad  of  Dead  La- 
dies   154 

To  Death,  of  His  Lady, .  155 

His  Mother's  Service   to 
Our  Lady 155 

Tohu  of  Tours  (Old 
French), 156 


My   Father's  Close  (Old 

French), 158 

Beauty  (Sappho), 159 

Youth  and  Lordship  (Ital- 
ian Street-Song) 159 

The  Leaf  (Leopard!) 161 

Francesca  da    Rimini 
(Dante) 162 


LYRICS. 


Love-Lily 163 

First  Love  Remembered,  164 

Plighted  Promise, 164 

Sudden  Light, 165 

A  Little   While, 166 

The  Song  of  the  Bower, .   167 

SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES,  AND  OTHER  SONNETS. 


Penumbra 168 

The  Woodspurge, 169 

The  Honeysuckle 170 

A  Youuii"  Fir-wood, 170 

The  Sea-Limits 171 


For  "Our  Lady  of  the  Rocks," 
by  Leonardo  Da  Vinci,  172 

For  a  Venetian  Pastoial, 
by  Giorgione, 172 

For  an  Allegorical  Dance 


of  Women,  by  Andrea 
Mantegna, 173 

For  "Ruggiero  and  An- 
gelica," by  Ingres 174 

For  "The  Wine  of  Circe," 


CONTENTS. 


by     Edward      Burne 

Jones 175 

Mary's  Girlhood, 175 

The  Passover  iu  the  Holy 

Family, 176 

Mary  Magdalene  at  the 
Door  of  Simon  the  Phar- 
isee,    177 

Saint  Luke  the  Painter, . .  178 

Lilith, 178 

Sibylla  Palmifera 179 

Veuua  Verticordia, 179 


Cassandra, 180 

Pandora, 181 

Oil  Refusal    of  Aid  Be- 
tween Nations 182 

On    tiie  "  Vita  Nuova  " 

of  Dante, 182 

Dantis  Teuebrae, 183 

Beauty  and   the  Bird,...   183 
A  Match  with  the  Moon,  184 

Autumn  Idleness 184 

Farewell  to  the  Glen, 185 

The  Mouochord, 185 


BALLADS. 


Rose  Mary,  Part  1 186 

Beryl-Song 194 

Rose  Mary,  Part  II., 195 

Beryl-Song 203 

Rose  Mary,  Part  III., ...  205 


Beryl-Song 212 

The  White  Ship  (Hemy 

I.  of  England), .  I 214 

The  King's  Tragedy 

(James  I.  of  Scots) 224 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE. 

A  BONNET  SEQUENCE. 

PART  I,    YOUTH  AND  CHANGE. 

I.  Love  Enthroned 249 

II.  Bridal  Birth 250 

III.  Love's  Testament 251 

IV.  Lovesight 251 

V.  Heart's  Hope 252 

VI.  The  Kiss 252 

VII.  Supreme  Surrender 253 

VIII.  Love's  Lovers 253 

IX.  Passion  and  Worship 254 

X.  The  Portrait 254 

XI.  The  Love-Letter 255 

XII.  The  Lover's  Walk 256 

XIII.  Youth's  Antiphony 256 

XIV.  Youth's  Spring-Tribute       ....  257 
XV.  The  Bird  Bond 257 

XVI.  A  Day  of  Love 258 

XVII.  Beauty's  Pageant L'5<J 

XVIII.  Genius  in  Beauty 259 

XIX.   Silent  Noon 2IJO 

XX.  Gracious  Moonlight 261 

XXI.  Love  Sweetness 261 

XXU.  Heart's  Haven 262 

XXIII.  Love's  Baubles    .  262 


CONTENTS. 

XXIV.  Pride  of  Youth 263 

XXV.  Winged  Hours 264 

XXVI.  Mid-Rapture 264 

XXVII.  Heart's  Compass 265 

XXVIII.  Soul  Light 265 

XXIX.  The  Moonstar 266 

XXX.  Last  Fire 267 

XXXI.  Her  Gifts 267 

XXXII.  Equal  Troth 268 

XXXIII.  Venus  Victrix 268 

XXXIV.  The  Dark  Glass 269 

XXXV.  The  Lamp's  Shrine 269 

XXXVI.  Life-in  Love 270 

XXX VI I.  The  Love-Moon 270 

XXXVIII.  The  Morrow's  Message        .  271 

XXXI X.  Sleepless  Dreams .271 

XL.  Severed  Selves 272 

XLI.  Through  Death  to  Love      ....  272 

XLII.   Hope  Overtaken 273 

XLII1.  Love  aud  Hope  ....  273 

XLIV.  Cloud  and  Wind         .  274 

XLV.  Secret  Parting 274 

XLVI.  Parted  Love 275 

XLVII.  Broken  Music 275 

XLVIII.  Death-in-Love 276 

XLIX.  Willowwood *.  277 

L.  Willowwood.     IL 277 

LI.  Willowwood.     Ill 278 

L1I.  Willowwood.     IV 278 

LIII.  Without  Her 279 

L1V.  Love's  Fatality 279 

LV.  Stillborn  Love 280 

LVI.  True  Woman.     I.  Herself          ...  280 

LVII.  True  Woman.     II.  Her  Love    ...  281 

LVIII.  True  Woman.     III.  Her  Heaven        .        .  281 

LIX.  Love's  Last  Gift 282 

PART  II.    CHANGE  AND  FATE. 

LX.  Transfigured  Life 283 

LXI.  The  Song-Throe 283 

LXII.  The  Soul's  Sphere 284 

LXIII.  Inclusiveness 284 

LXIV.  Ardor  and  Memory 285 

LXV.  Known  in  Vain 286 

LXVI.  The  Heart  of  the  Night      .  286 


LXVII.  The  Landmark 

LXVIII.  A  Dark  Day       . 

LXIX.  Autumn  Idleness 

LXX.  The  Hill  Summit 


287 
287 
288 
288 


CONTENTS. 

LXXI.  The  Choice.    1 289 

LXXII.  The  Choice.     II.       .....  289 

LXXIII.  The  Choice.    Ill 290 

LXX1V.  Old  and  New  Art.      I.    St.   Luke   the 

Painter 290 

LXXV.  Old  and  New  Art.     II.  Not  as  These     .  291 
LXXVI.  Old  and  New  Art.     III.    The  Husband- 
men        291 

LXXVII.  Soul's  Beauty 292 

LXXVIII.  Body's  Beauty 292 

LXXIX.  TheMonochord 293 

LXXX.  From  Dawn  to  Noon        ....  298 

LXXXI.  Memorial  Thresholds       ....  294 

LXXXII.  Hoarded  Joy 294 

LXXXIII.  Barren  Spring 295 

LXXXIV.  Farewell  to  the  Glen        ....  295 

LXXXV.  Vain  Virtues 296 

LXXXVI.  Lost  Days 296 

LXXXVI1.  Death's  Songsters 297 

LXXXVIII.  Hero's  Lamp 298 

LXXXIX.  The  Trees  of  the  Garden        .        •        .  298 

XC.  "  Retro  me,  Sathana  !  "   .        .        .        .  299 

XCI.  Lost  on  Both  Sides 299 

XCII.  The  Sun's  Shame.     1 300 

XCIII.  The  Sun's  Shame.     II 301 

XCIV.  Michel  Angelo's  Kiss        ....  301 

XCV.  The  Vase  of  Life 302 

XCVI.  Life  the  Beloved 302 

XCVII.  A  Superscription      ....         -303 

XCVIII.  He  and  I 303 

XCIX.  New-born  Death.    1 3<>4 

C.  New-born  Death.     IL      ....  304 

CL  The  One  Hope 305 

LYRICS,  &c. 


Soothsay, 306 

Chimes 309 

Parted  Presence 311 

A  Death-Parting 312 

Spheral  Change, 313 

Sunset  Wings, 314 


Song  and  Music, 315 

Three  Shadows 316 

Alas,  So  Long  ! 316 

Adieu,   317 

Insomnia 318 

Possession, .  319 


The  Cloud  Confines,  319 
SONNETS. 


For  the  Holy  Family  (by 
Michel  Angelo) 321 

For  Spring  (by  Sandro 
Botticelli) 322 

Five  English  Poets — 


I.  Thomas  Chattel-ton,  323 
II.  William  Blake 323 

III.  Samuel  Taylor  Col- 

eridire 324 

IV.  John  Keats, 324 


CONTENTS. 


V.  Percy  Bysshe  Shel- 
ley,  325 

Tiber,  Nile,  and  Thames,  326 
The   Last    Three    from 

Trafalgar, 326 

Czar  Alexander  II. , 327 

Words  on  the   Window- 
pane,  327 

Winter 328 

Spring 328 

The  Church-Porch 329 

Untimely    Lost.     (Oliver 
Madox  Brown.) 329 


Place  de  la  Bastille.  Paris,  S30 
"  Found  "  (for  a  Picture),  331 
A  Sea-Spell  (for  a  Picture),  331 
Fiammetta  (for  a  Picture),  332 
The  Day-Dream  (for  a 

Picture) » . .  332 

Astarte  Syriaca  (for  a 

Picture), 333 

Proserpina  (per  un 

Quadro) 333 

Proserpina  (for  a  Picture),  334 
La  Bella  Mano  (per  un 

Quadro), 335 


La  Bella  Mano  (for  a  Picture),  335 


POEMS. 

BY  DANTE  GABRIEL  ROSSETTI. 


THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL. 

THE  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 
From  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven  ; 

Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 
Of  waters  stilled  at  even  ; 

She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand, 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 

Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem, 
No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn, 

But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift, 
For  service  meetly  worn  ; 

Her  hair  that  lay  along  her  back 
Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn. 

Herseemed  she  scarce  had  been  a  day 

One  of  God's  choristers  ; 
The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone 

From  that  still  look  of  hers  ; 
Albeit,  to  them  she  left,  her  day 

Had  counted  as  ten  years. 

(To  one,  it  is  ten  years  of  years. 

.     .     .     Yet  now,  and  in  this  place, 
Surely  she  leaned  o'er  me  —  her  hair 

Fell  all  about  my  face.     .     .     . 
Nothing  :  the  autumn  fall  of  leaves. 

The  whole  year  sets  apace.) 


18  THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL. 

It  was  the  rampart  of  God's  house 

That  she  was  standing  on  ; 
By  God  built  over  the  sheer  depth 

The  which  is  Space  begun  ; 
So  high,  that  looking  downward  thence 

She  scarce  could  see  the  sun. 

It  lies  in  Heaven,  across  the  flood 

Of  ether,  a#a  bridge. 
Beneath,  the  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  where  this  earth 

Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 

Around  her,  lovers,  newly  met 
'Mid  deathless  love's  acclaims, 

Spoke  evermore  among  themselves 
Their  heart-remembered  names  ; 

And  the  souls  mounting  up  to  God 
Went  by  her  like  thin  flames. 

And  still  she  bowed  herself  and  stooped 

Out  of  the  circling  charm  ; 
Until  her  bosom  must  have  made 

The  bar  she  leaned  on  warm, 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 

Along  her  bended  arm. 

From  the  fixed  place  of  Heaven  she  saw 

Time  like  a  pulse  shake  fierce 
Through  all  the  worlds.    Her  gaze  still  strove 

Within  the  gulf  to  pierce 
Its  path  ;  and  now  she  spoke  as  when 

The  stars  sang  in  their  spheres. 

The  sun  was  gone  now  ;  the  curled  moon 

Was  like  a  little  feather 
Fluttering  far  down  the  gulf  ;  and  now 

She  spoke  through  the  still  weather. 


THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL  19 

Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  the  stars 
Had  when  they  sang  together. 

(Ah  sweet !     Even  now,  in  that  bird's  song, 

Strove  not  her  accents  there, 
Fain  to  be  hearkened?     When  those  bells 

Possessed  the  mid-day  air, 
Strove  not  her  steps  to  reach  my  side 

Down  all  the  echoing  stair  ?) 

"  I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me, 

For  he  will  come,"  she  said. 
"  Have  I  not  prayed  in  Heaven  ?  —  on  earth, 

Lord,  Lord,  has  he  not  pray'd  ? 
Are  not  two  prayers  a  perfect  strength  ? 

And  shall  I  feel  afraid  ? 

"  When  round  his  head  the  aureole  clings, 

And  he  is  clothed  in  white, 
I'll  take  his  hand  and  go  with  him 

To  the  deep  wells  of  light ; 
As  unto  a  stream  we  will  step  down, 

And  bathe  there  in  God's  sight. 

"We  two  will  stand  beside  that  shrine, 

Occult,  withheld,  untrod, 
Whose  lamps  are  stirred  continually 

With  prayer  sent  up  to  God  ; 
And  see  our  old  prayers,  granted,  melt 

Each  like  a  little  cloud. 

"We  two  will  lie  i'  the  shadow  of 

That  living  mystic  tree 
Within  whose  secret  growth  the  Dove 

Is  sometimes  felt  to  b'e, 
While  every  leaf  that  His  plumes  touch. 

Saith  His  Name  audibly 


20  THE  BLESSED  DAMOZEL. 

"  And  I  myself  will  teach  to  him, 

I  myself,  lying  so, 
The  songs  I  sing  here  ;  which  his  voice 

Shall  pause  in,  hushed  and  slow, 
And  find  some  knowledge  at  each  pause, 

Or  some  new  thing  to  know." 

(Alas  !     We  two,  we  two,  thou  say'st ! 

Yea,  one  wast  thou  with  me 
That  once  of  old.     But  shall  God  lift 

To  endless  unity 
The  soul  whose  likeness  with  thy  soul, 

Was  but  its  love  for  thee  ?) 

"  We  two,"  she  said,  "  will  seek  the  groves 

Where  the  lady  Mary  is, 
With  her  five  handmaidens,  whose  names 

Are  five  sweet  symphonies, 
Cecily,  Gertrude,  Magdalen, 

Margaret  and  Rosalys. 

"  Circlewise  sit  they,  with  bound  locks 

And  foreheads  garlanded  ; 
Into  the  fine  cloth  white  like  flame 

Weaving  the  golden  thread, 
To  fashion  the  birth-robes  for  them 

Who  are  just  born,  being  dead. 

"  He  shall  fear,  haply,  and  be  dumb  : 

Then  will  I  lay  my  cheek 
To  his,  and  tell  about  our  love, 

Not  once  abashed  or  weak  : 
And  the  dear  Mother  will  approve 

My  pride,  and  let  me  speak. 

"  Herself  shall  bring  us,  hand  in  hand, 
To  Him  round  whom  all  souls 

Kneel,  the  clear-ranged  unnumbered  heads 
Bowed  with  their  aureoles  : 


LOVE'S  XOCTURN.  21 

And  angels  meeting  us  shall  sing 
To  their  citherns  and  citoles. 

"  There  will  I  ask  of  Christ  the  Lord 

Thus  much  for  him  and  me  :  — 
Only  to  live  as  once  on  earth 

With  Love,  only  to  be, 
As  then  awhile,  for  ever  now 

Together,  I  and  he." 

She  gazed  and  listened  and  then  said, 

Less  sad  of  speech  than  mild,  — 
"All  this  is  when  he  comes."     She  ceased. 

The  light  thrilled  towards  her,  fill'd 
With  angels  in  strong  level  flight. 

Her  eyes  prayed,  and  she  smil'd. 

(I  saw  her  smile.)     But  soon  their  path 

Was  vague  in  distant  spheres  : 
And  then  she  cast  her  arms  along 

The  golden  barriers, 
And  laid  her  face  between  her  hands, 

And  wept.     (I  heard  her  tears.) 


LOVE'S  NOCTURN. 

MASTER  of  the  murmuring  courts 
Where  the  shapes  of  sleep  convene  ! 

Lo  !  my  spirit  here  exhorts 
All  the  powers  of  thy  demesne 
For  their  aid  to  woo  my  queen. 

What  reports 
Yield  thy  jealous  courts  unseen  ? 

Vaporous,  unaccountable, 

Dreamland  lies  forlorn  of  light, 
Hollow  like  a  breathing  shell. 


22  LO  VE  'S  NOCTURN. 

Ah  !  that  from  all  dreams  I  might 
Choose  one  dream  and  guide  its  flight ! 

I  know  well 
What  her  sleep  should  tell  to-night. 

There  the  dreams  are  multitudes  : 
Some  that  will  not  wait  for  sleep, 

Deep  within  the  August  woods  ; 

Some  that  hum  while  rest  may  steep 

.     Weary  labor  laid  a-heap  ; 

Interludes, 
Some,  of  grievous  moods  that  weep. 

Poets'  fancies  all  are  there  : 

There  the  elf-girls  flood  with  wings 

Valleys  full  of  plaintive  air  ; 

There  breathe  perfumes  ;  there  in  rings 
Whirl  the  form-bewildered  springs  ; 

Siren  there 
Winds  her  dizzy  hair  and  sings. 

Thence  the  one  dream  mutually 

Dreamed  in  bridal  unison, 
Less  than  waking  ecstasy  ; 

Half-formed  visions  that  make  moan 

In  the  house  of  birth  alone  ; 
And  what  we 

At  death's  wicket  see,  unknown. 

But  for  mine  own  sleep,  it  lies 
In  one  gracious  form's  control, 

Fair  with  honorable  eyes, 
Lamps  of  a  translucent  soul : 
O  their  glance  is  loftiest  dole, 

Sweet  and  wise, 
Wherein  Love  descries  his  goal. 

Reft  of  her,  my  dreams  are  all 

Clammy  trance  that  fears  the  sky  : 
Changing  footpaths  shift  and  fall ; 


LOVE'S  NOC TURN.  23 

From  polluted  coverts  nigh, 
Miserable  phantoms  sigh  ; 
Quakes  the  pall, 
And  the  funeral  goes  by. 

Master,  is  it  soothly  said 

That,  as  echoes  of  man's  speech 
Far  in  secret  clefts  are  made, 

So  do  all  men's  bodies  reach 

Shadows  o'er  thy  sunken  beach, — 
Shape  or  shade 

In  those  halls  portrayed  of  each  ? 

Ah  !  might  I,  by  thy  good  grace 

Groping  in  the  windy  stair, 
(Darkness  and  the  breath  of  space 

Like  loud  waters  everywhere), 

Meeting  mine  own  image  there 
Face  to  face, 

Send  it  from  that  place  to  her  ! 

Nay,  not  I  ;  but  oh  !  do  thou, 

Master,  from  thy  shadow  kind 
Call  my  body's  phantom  now  : 

Bid  it  bear  its  face  declin'd 

Till  its  flight  her  slumbers  find, 
And  her  brow 

Feel  its  presence  bow  like  wind. 

Where  in  groves  the  gracile  Spring 

Trembles,  with  mute  orison 
Confidently  strengthening, 

Water's  voice  and  wind's  as  one 

Shed  an  echo  in  the  sun. 
Soft  as  Spring, 

Master,  bid  it  sing  and  moan. 

Song  shall  tell  how  glad  and  strong 

Is  the  night  she  soothes  alway  ; 
Moan  shall  grieve  with  that  parched  tongue 

Of  the  brazen  hours  of  day  : 


24  LOVE'S  NOCTURN. 

Sounds  as  of  the  springtide  they, 

Moan  and  song, 
While  the  chill  months  long  for  May. 

Not  the  prayers  which  with  all  leave 
The  world's  fluent  woes  prefer, — 

Not  the  praise  the  world  doth  give, 
Dulcet  fulsome  whisperer  ;  — 
Let  it  yield  my  love  to  her, 

And  achieve 
Strength  that  shall  not  grieve  or  err. 

Wheresoe'er  my  dreams  befall, 
Both  at  night-watch,  (let  it  say), 

And  where  round  the  sun-dial 
The  reluctant  hours  of  day, 
Heartless,  hopeless  of  their  way, 

Rest  and  call  ;  — 
There  her  glance  doth  fall  and  stay. 

Suddenly  her  face  is  there  : 

So  do  mounting  vapors  wreathe 

Subtle-scented  transports  where 
The  black  fir- wood  sets  its  teeth 
Part  the  boughs  and  look  beneath, — 

Lilies  share 
Secret  waters  there,  and  breathe. 

Master,  bid  my  shadow  bend 

Whispering  thus  till  birth  of  light, 

Lest  new  shapes  that  sleep  may  send 
Scatter  all  its  work  to  flight ;  — 
Master,  master  of  the  night, 

Bid  it  spend 
Speech,  song,  prayer,  and  end  aright. 

Yet,  ah  me  !  if  at  her  head 

There  another  phantom  lean 
Murmuring  o'er  the  fragrant  bed, — 


LO  VE  'S  NOCTURN.  25 

Ah  !  and  if  my  spirit's  queen 
Smile  those  alien  words  between, — 

Ah  !  poor  shade  ! 
£hall  it  strive,  or  fade  unseen  ? 

How  should  love's  own  messenger 

Strive  with  love  and  be  love's  foe  ! 
Master,  nay  !     If  thus,  in  her, 

Sleep  a  wedded  heart  should  show, — 

Silent  let  mine  image  go, 
Its  old  share 

Of  thy  spell-bound  air  to  know. 

Like  a  vapor  wan  and  mute, 

Like  a  flame,  so  let  it  pass  ; 
One  low  sigh  across  her  lute, 

One  dull  breath  against  her  glass  ; 

And  to  my  sad  soul,  alas  ! 
One  salute 

Cold  as  when  death's  foot  shall  pass. 

Then,  too,  let  all  hopes  of  mine, 

All  vain  hopes  by  night  and  day, 
Slowly  at  thy  summoning  sign 

Rise  up  pallid  and  obey. 

Dreams,  if  this  is  thus,  were  they  :  — 
Be  they  thine, 

And  to  dreamworld  pine  away. 

Yet  from  old  time,  life,  not  death, 

Master,  in  thy  rule  is  rife  : 
Lo  !  through  thee,  with  mingling  breath, 

Adam  woke  beside  his  wife. 

O  Love  bring  me  so,  for  strife, 
Force  and  faith, 

Bring  me  so  not  death  but  life  I 

Yea,  to  Love  himself  is  pour'd 

This  frail  song  of  hope  and  fear. 
Thou  art  Love,  of  one  accord 


26  TROY  TOWN. 

With  kind  Sleep  to  bring  her  near, 
Still-eyed,  deep- eyed,  ah  how  dear  ! 

Master,  Lord, 
In  her  name  implor'd,  O  hear  ! 


TROY  TOWN. 

HEAVENBORN  HELEN,  Sparta's  queen, 

( O  Troy  Town  !} 

Had  two  breasts  of  heavenly  sheen, 
The  sun  and  moon  of  the  heart's  desire 
All  Love's  lordship  lay  between. 
( 0  Troy's  down, 
Tall  Troy's  on  fire!) 

Helen  knelt  at  Venus'  shrine, 
(OTroy  Town!) 

Saying,  "A  little  gift  is  mine, 

A  little  gift  for  a  heart's  desire. 

Hear  me  speak  and  make  me  a  sign  ! 
( 0  Troy's  down, 
Tall  Troy's  on  fire  !) 

"  Look,  I  bring  thee  a  carven  cup  ; 

(0  Troy  Town!) 
See  it  here  as  I  hold  it  up, — 
Shaped  it  is  to  the  heart's  desire, 
Fit  to  fill  when  the  gods  would  sup. 
( 0  Troy's  down, 
Tall  Troy's  on  fire!) 

"It  was  molded  like  my  breast ; 
(  O  2}<oy  Town  !) 

He  that  sees  it  may  not  rest, 

Rest  at  all  for  his  heart's  desire. 

O  give  ear  to  my  heart's  behest  ! 
( O  Troy's  down, 
Tall  Troy's  onjire!) 


TROY  TOIVX.  27 

"  See  my  breast,  how  like  it  is  ; 
( 0  Tr<nj  Town  !} 

See  it  bare  for  the  air  to  kiss  ! 

Is  the  cup  to  thy  heart's  desire  ? 

O  for  the  breast,  O  make  it  his  ! 
(  O  Troy's  down, 
Tall  Troy's  onjire!) 

"  Yea,  for  my  bosom  here  I  sue  ; 
(0  Troy  Tow >,  !) 

Thou  must  give  it  where  'tis  due, 

Give  it  there  to  the  heart's  desire. 

Whom  do  I  give  my  bosom  to? 
(  0  Troy's  down, 
Tall  Troy's  on  fire!) 

"  Each  twin  breast  is  an  apple  sweet ! 

(0  Troy  T,,wn  .') 
Once  an  apple  stirred  the  beat 
Of  thy  heart  with  the  heart's  desire  : — 
Say,  who  brought  it  then  to  thy  feet  ? 
( 0  Troy's  down, 
Tall  Troy's  onjire  !} 

"  They  that  claimed  it  then  were  three  : 
( 0  Troy  Town  /) 

For  thy  sake  two  hearts  did  he 

Make  forlorn  of  the  heart's  desire. 

Do  for  him  as  he  did  for  thee  ! 
(O  Troy's  down, 
Tall  Troy's  onjire  /) 

"  Mine  are  apples  grown  to  the  south, 

( O  Troy  Tow,,  ! 

Grown  to  taste  in  the  days  of  drouth, 
Taste  and  waste  to  the  heart's  desire  : 
Mine  are  apples  meet  for  his  mouth  !  " 
( 0  Troy's  down, 
Tall  Troy's  on  fire  /) 


28  TROY  TOWN. 

Venus  looked  on  Helen's  gift, 
(  0  Tray  Town  f) 

Looked  and  smiled  with  subtle  drift, 
Saw  the  work  of  her  heart's  desire  :  — 
"  There  thou  kneel'st  for  Love  to  lift ! " 
( 0  Troy's  down, 
Tall  Troy's  on  fire  !) 

Venus  looked  in  Helen's  face, 
(0  Troy  Twnf) 

Knew  far  off  an  hour  and  place, 

And  fire  lit  from  the  heart's  desire  ; 

Laughed  and  said,  "  Thy  gift  hath  grace  ! " 
( 0  Troy's  down, 
Tall  Troy' son  fire!} 

Cupid  looked  on  Helen's  breast, 

(0  Troy  Town!) 
Saw  the  heart  within  its  nest, 
Saw  the  flame  of  the  heart's  desire, — 
Marked  his  arrow's  burning  crest. 
( 0  Troy's  down, 
Tall  Troy' son  fire!) 

Cupid  took  another  dart, 

( 0  Troy  Town  !  ) 
Fledged  it  for  another  heart, 
Winged  the  shaft  with  the  heart's  desire, 
Drew  the  string  and  said,  "  Depart !  " 
( 0  Troy's  clown, 
Tall  Troy's  on  fire  f) 

Paris  turned  upon  his  bed, 

(0  Troy  Town!) 
Turned  upon  his  bed  and  said, 
Dead  at  heart  with  the  heart's  desire, — 
."  O  to  clasp  her  golden  head  !  " 
( 0  Troy's  down, 
Tall  Troy's  on  fire  ! ) 


THE  BURDEN  OF  NINEVEH.  29 


THE  BURDEN  OF  NINEVEH. 

Lsr  our  Museum  galleries 

To-day  I  lingered  o'er  the  prize 

Dead  Greece  vouchsafes  to  living  eyes, — 

Her  Art  for  ever  in  fresh  wise 

From  hour  to  hour  rejoicing  me. 
Sighing  I  turned  at  last  to  win 
Once  more  the  London  dirt  and  din  ; 
And  as  I  made  the  swing-door  spin 
And  issued,  they  were  hoisting  in 

A  winged  beast  from  Nineveh. 

A  human  face  the  creature  wore, 
And  hoofs  behind  and  hoofs  before, 
And  flanks  with  dark  runes  fretted  o'er. 
5  Twas  bull,  'twas  mitred  Minotaur, 

A  dead  disboweled  mystery  ; 
The  mummy  of  a  buried  faith 
Stark  from  the  charnel  without  scathe, 
Its  wings  stood  for  the  light  to  bathe, — 
Such  fossil  cerements  as  might  swathe 
The  very  corpse  of  Nineveh. 

The  print  of  its  first  rush- wrapping, 
Wound  ere  it  dryed,  still  ribbed  the  thing. 
What  song-  did  the  brown  maidens  sing, 
From  purple  mouths  alternating, 

When  that  was  woven  languidly  ? 
What  vows,  what  rites,  what  prayers  preferr'd, 
What  songs  has  the  strange  image  heard  ? 
In  what  blind  vigil  stood  interr'd 
For  ages,  till  an  English  word 

Broke  silence  first  at  Nineveh  ? 

Oh  when  upon  each  sculptured  court, 
Where  even  the  wind  might  not  resort, — 
O'er  which  Time  passed,  of  like  import 
With  the  wild  Arab  boys  at  sport, — 
A  living  face  looked  in  to  see  : — 


30  THE  B  URDEN  OF  NINE  VEH. 

t 

Oh  seemed  it  not  —  the  spell  once  broke  — 
As  though  the  carven  warriors  woke, 
As  though  the  shaft  the  string  forsook, 
The  cymbals  clashed,  the  chariots  shook, 
And  there  was  life  in  Nineveh? 

On  London  stones  our  sun  anew 
The  beast's  recovered  shadow  threw. 
(No  shade  that  plague  of  darkness  knew, 
No  light,  no  shade,  while  older  grew  N 

By  ages  the  old  earth  and  sea.) 
Lo  thou  !  could  all  thy  priests  have  shown 
Such  proof  to  make  thy  godhead  known  ? 
From  their  dead  Past  thou  liv'st  alone  ; 
And  still  thy  shadow  is  thine  own 

Even  as  of  yore  in  Nineveh. 

That  day  whereof  we  keep  record, 
When  near  thy  city-gates  the  Lord 
Sheltered  his  Jonah  with  a  gourd, 
This  sun,  (I  said)  here  present,  pour'd 

Even  thus  this  shadow  that  I  see. 
This  shadow  has  been  shed  the  same 
From  sun  and  moon, —  from  lamps  which  came 
For  prayer, —  from  fifteen  days  of  flame, 
The  last,  while  smoldered  to  a  name 

Sardanapalus'  Nineveh. 

Within  thy  shadow,  haply,  once 
Sennacherib  has  knelt,  whose  sons 
Smote  him  between  the  altar-stones  : 
Or  pale  Semiramis  her  zones 

Of  gold,  her  incense  brought  to  thee, 

In  love  for  grace,  in  war  for  aid  :  . . . . 
Ay,  and  who  else  ?  . . .  .till  'neath  thy  shade 
Within  his  trenches  newly  made 
Last  year  the  Christian  knelt  and  pray'd  — 

Not  to  thy  strength  —  in  Nineveh.* 

*  During  the  t-xcavatious,  the  Tiyari  workmen  hold  their 
services  iu  the  shadow  of  the  great  bulls.   (Layard's  " 
ch.  ix.) 


THE  B  URDEX  OF  NINE  VEH.  U 

Now,  thou  poor  god,  within  this  hall 
"Where  the  blank  windows  blind  the  wall 
From  pedestal  to  pedestal, 
The  kind  of  light  shall  on  thee  fall 

Which  London  takes  the  day  to  be  : 
While  school-foundations  in  the  act 
Of  boliday,  three  files  compact, 
Shall  learn  to  view  thee  as  a  fact 
Connected  with  that  zealous  tract  : 

"  Rome, —  Babylon  and  Nineveh." 


Deemed  they  of  this,  those  worshipers, 
When,  in  some  mythic  chain  of  verse 
Which  man  shall  not  again  rehearse, 
The  faces  of  thy  ministers 
Yearned  pale  with  bitter  ecstasy  ? 
Greece,  Egypt,  Rome, —  did  any  god 
Before  whose  feet  men  knelt  unshod 
Deem  that  in  this  unblest  abode 
Another  scarce  more  unknown  god 
Should  house  with  him,  from  Nineveh  ? 


Ah  !  in  what  quarries  lay  the  stone 
From  which  this  pigmy  pile  has  grown, 
Unto  man's  need  how  long  unknown, 
Since  thy  vast  temples,  court  and  cone, 

Rose  far  in  desert  history  ? 
Ah  !  what  is  here  that  does  not  lie 
All  strange  to  thine  awakened  eye  ? 
Ah!  what  is  here  can  testify 
(Save  that  dumb  presence  of  the  sky) 

Unto  thy  day  and  Nineveh  ? 

Why,  of  those  mummies  in  the  room 
Above,  there  might  indeed  have  come 
One  out  of  Egypt  to  thy  home, 
An  alien.     Kay,  but  were  not  some 
Of  these  thine  own  "  antiquity?" 


THE  &URDEN  Of  NIXErEtt. 

And  now, —  they  and  their  gods  and  thou 
All  relics  here  together, —  now 
Whose  profit  ?  whether  bull  or  cow, 
Isis  or  Ibis,  who  or  how, 

Whether  of  Thebes  or  Nineveh  ? 

The  consecrated  metals  found, 
And  ivory  tablets,  underground, 
Winged  teraphim  and  creatures  crown'd 
When  air  and  daylight  filled  the  mound, 

Fell  into  dust  immediately. 
And  even  as  these,  the  images 
Of  awe  and  worship, —  even  as  these, — 
So,  smitten  with  the  sun's  increase, 
Her  glory  moldered  and  did  cease 

From  immemorial  Nineveh. 

The  day  her  builders  made  their  halt, 
Those  cities  of  the  lake  of  salt 
Stood  firmly  'stablished  without  fault, 
Made  proud  with  pillars  of  basalt, 

With  sardonyx  and  porphyry. 
The  day  that  Jonah  bore  abroad 
To  Nineveh  the  voice  of  God, 
A  brackish  lake  lay  in  his  road, 
Where  erst  Pride  fixed  her  sure  abode, 

As  then  in  royal  Nineveh. 

The  day  when  ho,  Pride's  lord  and  Man's, 
Showed  all  the  kingdoms  at  a  glance 
To  Him  before  whose  countenance 
The  years  recede,  the  years  advance, 

And  said,  Fall  down  and  worship  me  :- 
Mid  all  the  pomp  beneath  that  look, 
Then  stirred  there,  haply,  some  rebuke, 
Where  to  the  wind  the  salt  pools  shook, 
And  in  those  tracts,  of  life  forsook, 

That  knew  thee  not.  O  Nineveh. 

Delicate  harlot  !     On  thy  throne 
Thou  with  a  world  beneath  thee  prone 


THE  BURDEN  OF  NINEVEH.  33 

In  state  for  ages  sat'st  alone  ; 

And  needs  were  years  and  lusters  flown 

Ere  strength  of  man  could  vanquish  thee 
"Whom  even  thy  victor  foes  must  bring, 
Still  royal,  among  maids  that  sing 
As  with  doves'  voices,  taboring 
Upon  their  breasts,  unto  the  King, 

A  kingly  conquest,  Nineveh  ! 

. . .  Here  woke  my  thought.     The  wind's  slow  sway 
Had  waxed  ;  and  like  the  human  play 
Of  scorn  that  smiling  spreads  away, 
The  sunshine  shivered  off  the  day  : 

The  callous  wind,  it  seemed  to  me, 
Swept  up  the  shadow  from  the  ground  : 
And  pale  as  whom  the  Fates  astound, 
The  god  forlorn  stood  winged  and  crown'd  : 
"Within  I  knew  the  cry  lay  bound 

Of  the  dumb  soul  of  Nineveh. 

V 

And  as  I  turned,  my  sense  half  shut 
Still  saw  the  crowds  of  kerb  and  rut 
Go  past  as  marshaled  to  the  strut 
Of  ranks  in  gypsum  quaintly  cut. 

It  seemed  in  one  same  pageantry 
They  followed  forms  which  had  been  erst ; 
To  pass,  till  on  my  sight  should  burst 
That  future  of  the  best  or  worst 
When  some  may  question  which  was  first, 

Of  London  or  of  Nineveh. 

For  as  that  Bull-god  once  did  stand 
And  watched  the  burial-clouds  of  sand, 
Till  these  at  last  without  a  hand 
Rose  o'er  his  eyes,  another  land, 

And  blinded  him  with  destiny  :  — 
So  may  he  stand  again  ;  till  now, 
In  ships  of  unknown  sail  and  prow, 
Some  tribe  of  the  Australian  plow 
3 


34  EDEN  BO  WER. 

Bear  him  afar, —  a  relic  now 
Of  London,  not  of  Nineveh  1 

Or  it  may  chance  indeed  that  when 
Man's  age  is  hoary  among  men, — 
His  centuries  threescore  and  ten, — 
His  furthest  childhood  shall  seem  then 

More  clear  than  later  times  may  be  : 
Who,  finding  in  this  desert  place 
This  form,  shall  hold  us  for  some  race 
That  walked  not  in  Christ's  lowly  ways, 
But  bowed  its  pride  and  vowed  its  praise 

Unto  the  god  of  Nineveh. 

The  smile  rose  first, —  anon  drew  nigh 
The  thought  : . . .  Those  heavy  wings  spread  high 
So  sure  of  flight,  which  do  not  fly  ; 
That  set  gaze  never  on  the  sky  ; 

Those  scriptured  flanks  it  cannot  see  ; 
Its  crown,  a  brow-contracting  load  ; 
Its  planted  feet  which  trust  the  sod  :  .  .  . 
(So  grew  the  image  as  I  trod  :) 
O  Nineveh,  was  this  thy  God, — 

Thine  also,  mighty  Nineveh  ? 


EDEN  BOWER. 

IT  was  Lilith  the  wife  of  Adam  : 

(Eden  bower's  in  flower.) 
Not  a  drop  of  her  blood  was  human, 
But  she  was  made  like  a  soft  sweet  woman. 

Lilith  stood  on  the  skirts  of  Eden  ; 

(And  0  the  bower  and  the  hour!) 
She  was  the  first  that  thence  was  driven  ; 
With  her  was  hell  and  with  Eve  was  heaven. 


SOWER.  65 

In  the  ear  of  the  Snake  said  Lilith  :  — 

(Eden  bower's  in  flower!) 
"  To  thee  I  come  when  the  rest  is  over ; 
A  snake  was  I  when  thou  wast  my  lover. 

"  I  was  the  fairest  snake  in  Eden  : 

(And  O  the  bower  and  the  hourf) 
By  the  earth's  will,  new  form  and  feature 
Made  me  a  wife  for  the  earth's  new  creature. 

"  Take  trie  thou  as  I  come  from  Adam  : 
(Eden  boicer's  in  flower.) 
Once  again  shall  my  love  subdue  thee  ; 
The  past  is  past  and  I  am  come  to  thee. 

"  O  but  Adam  was  thrall  to  Lilith  ! 

(And  0  the  bower  and  the  hour  /) 
All  the  threads  of  my  hair  are  golden, 
And  there  in  a  net  his  heart  was  holden. 

"  O  and  Lilith  was  queen  of  Adam  ! 

(Eden  bower's  in  flower.) 
All  the  day  and  the  night  together 
My  breath  could  shake  his  soul  like  a  feather. 

"  What  great  joys  had  Adam  and  Lilith  !  — 

(And  O  the  bower  and  the  hour  /) 
Sweet  close  rings  of  the  serpent's  twining, 
As  heart  in  heart  lay  sighing  and  pining. 

"  What  bright  babes  had  Lilith  and  Adam  !  — 

(Eden  bower's  in  flower.) 
Shapes  that  coiled  in  the  woods  and  waters, 
Glittering  sons  and  radiant  daughters. 

"  O  thou  god,  the  Lord  God  of  Eden  ! 

(And  O  the  bower  and  the  hour!) 
Say,  was  this  fair  body  for  no  man, 
That  of  Adam's  flesh  thou  mak'st  him  a  woman  ? 


36  EDEN  BOWER. 

"  O  thou  Snake,  the  King-snake  of  Eden ! 
(Eden  bower's  in  flower.) 
God's  strong  will  our  necks  are  under, 
But  thou  and  I  may  cleave  it  in  sunder. 

"  Help,  sweet  Snake,  sweet  lover  of  Lilith  ! 

(And  0  the  boicer  and  the  hour  !) 
And  let  God  learn  how  I  loved  and  hated 
Man  in  the  image  of  God  created. 

"  Help  me  once  against  Eve  and  Adam  ! 
(Eden  bower's  in  flower) 
Help  me  once  for  this  one  endeavor, 
And  then  niy  love  shall  be  thine  for  ever ! 

"  Strong  is  God,  the  fell  foe  of  Lilith  : 

(And  0  the  bower  and  the  hour  !) 
Naught  in  heaven  or  earth  may  affright  him  ; 
But  join  thou  with  me  and  we  will  smite  him. 

"  Strong  is  God,  the  great  God  of  Eden  : 
(Eden  bower's  in  flower.) 
Over  all  He  made  He  hath  power  ; 
But  lend  me  thou  thy  shape  for  an  hour  ! 

"Lend  thy  shape  for  the  love  of  Lilith  ! 

(And  0  the  boicer  and  the  hour!) 
Look,  my  mouth  and  my  cheek  are  ruddy, 
And  thou  art  cold,  and  fire  is  my  body. 

"  Lend  thy  shape  for  the  hate  of  Adam  ! 
(Eden  bower's  in  flower.) 
That  he  may  wail  my  joy  that  forsook  him, 
And  curse  the  day  when  the  bride-sleep  took  him. 

"  Lend  thy  shape  for  the  shame  of  Eden  ! 

(And  0  the  boicer  and  the  hour!) 
Is  not  the  foe-God  weak  as  the  foeman 
When  love  grows  hate  in  the  heart  of  a  woman  ? 


EDEN  BOWER.  37 

"  Would'st  thou  know  the  heart's  hope  of  Lilith  ? 

(Eden  bowels  in  flower.} 

Then  bring  thou  close  thine  head  till  it  glisten 
Along  my  breast,  and  lip  me  and  listen. 

"  Am  I  sweet,  O  sweet  Snake  of  Eden  ; 

(And  O  the  bower  and  the  hour  /) 
Then  ope  thine  ear  to  my  warm  mouth's  cooing 
And  learn  what  deed  remains  for  our  doing. 

"  Thou  didst  hear  when  God  said  to  Adam  :  — 
«  (Eden  bower's  in  flower.) 

"  Of  all  this  wealth  I  have  made  thee  warden  ; 
Thou'rt  free  to  eat  of  the  tiees  of  the  garden  : 

"  '  Only  of  one  tree  eat  not  in  Eden  ; 

(And  0  the  bower  and  the  hour  I] 
All  save  one  I  give  to  thy  free  will, — 
The  Tree  of  the  Knowledge  of  Good  and  Evil.' 

"  0  my  love,  come  nearer  to  Lilith  ! 

(Eden  boicer's  in  flower.) 
In  thy  sweet  folds  bind  me  and  bend  me, 
And  let  me  feel  the  shape  thou  shalt  lend  me  ! 

"  In  thy  shape  I'll  go  back  to  Eden  ; 

(And  0  the  bower  and  the  hour  !) 
In  these  coils  that  Tree  will  I  grapple, 
And  stretch  this  crowned  head  forth  by  the  apple. 

"  Lo,  Eve  bends  to  the  breath  of  Lilith  ! 
(Eden  boicer^s  in  flower.) 
O  how  then  shall  my  heart  desire 
All  her  blood  as  food  to  its  fire  ! 

"Lo,  Eve  bends  to  the  words  of  Lilith  !  — 

(And  0  the  bower  and  the  hour  !) 
( Nay,  this  Tree's  fruit, —  why  should  ye  hate  it, 
Or  Death  be  born  the  day  that  ye  ate  it? 


\  EDEN  BO  WER. 

"  '  Nay,  but  on  that  great  day  in  Eden, 

(Eden  bower's  in  flower?) 
By  the  help  that  in  this  wise  Tree  is, 
God  knows  well  ye  shall  be  as  He  is.' 

"  Then  Eve  shall  eat  and  give  unto  Adam  ; 

(And  0  the  bower  and  the  hour  /) 
And  then  they  both  shall  know  they  are  naked, 
And  their  hearts  ache  as  my  heart  hath  ached. 

"  Ay,  let  them  hide  in  the  trees  of  Eden, 

(Eden  bower's  in  flower.)  » 

As  in  the  cool  of  the  day  in  the  garden 
God  shall  walk  without  pity  or  pardon. 

"  Hear,  thou  Eve,  the  man's  heart  in  Adam  ! 

(And  0  the  bower  and  the  hour  !) 
Of  his  brave  words  hark  to  the  bravest  :  — 
'  This  the  woman  gave  that  thou  gavest.' 

"  Hear  Eve  speak,  yea,  list  to  her,  Lilith  ! 
(Eden  bower's  in  flower.) 

Feast  thine  heart  with  words  that  shall  sate  it  — 
'This  the  serpent  gave  and  I  ate  it.' 

"  O  proud  Eve,  cling  close  to  thine  Adam, 

(And  0  the  bower  and  the  hour!] 
Driven  forth  as  the  beasts  of  his  naming 
By  the  sword  that  for  ever  is  flaming. 

"  Know,  thy  path  is  known  unto  Lilith  ! 
(Eden  bower's  in  flower.) 
While  the  blithe  birds  sang  at  thy  wedding, 
There  her  tears  grew'  thorns  for  thy  treading. 

"  O  my  love,  thou  Love-snake  of  Eden  ! 

(And  O  the  bower  and  the  hour  !) 
O  to-day  and  the  day  to  come  after  ! 
Loose  me,  love, —  give  breath  to  my  laughter ! 


EDEN  BOWER.  39 

"  O  bright  Snake,  the  Death- worm  of  Adam  ! 

(Eden  bower's  in  flower.) 

Wreathe  thy  neck  with  my  hair's  bright  tether, 
And  wear  my  gold  and  thy  gold  together  ! 

"  On  that  day  on  the  skirts  of  Eden, 

(And  0  the  bower  and  the,  hour  /) 
In  thy  shape  shall  I  glide  back  to  thee, 
And  in  my  shape  for  an  instant  view  thee. 

"  But  when  thou'rt  thou  and  Lilith  is  Lilith, 
(Eden  bower's  in  flower.) 

In  what  bliss  past  hearing  or  seeing 

Shall  each  one  drink  of  the  other's  being  ! 
• 

"  With  cries  of  <  Eve  ! '  and  <  Eden  ! '  and  <  Adam ' 
(And  0  the  boicer  and  the  hour  !) 

How  shall  we  mingle  our  love's  caresses, 

I  in  thy  coils,  and  thou  in  my  tresses  ! 

"  With  those  names,  ye  echoes  of  Eden, 
(Eden  bower's  in  flower.) 

Fire  shall  cry  from  my  heart  that  burneth, — 
'  Dust  he  is  and  to  dust  returneth  ! ' 

"  Yet  to-day,  thou  master  of  Lilith, — 

(And  0  the  boicer  and  the  hour!) 
Wrap  me  round  in  the  form  I'll  borrow 
And  let  me  tell  thee  of  sweet  to-morrow. 

"  In  the  planted  garden  eastward  in  Eden, 

(Eden  bower's  in  flower.) 

Where  the  river  goes  forth  to  water  the  garden, 
The  springs  shall  dry  and  the  soil  shall  harden. 

"  Yea,  where  the  bride-sleep  fell  upon  Adam, 

(And  0  the  bower  and  the  hour  !) 
None  shall  hear  when  the  storm-wind  whistles 
Through  roses  choked  among  thorns  and  thistles. 


40  EDEN  BO  WER. 

"  Yea,  beside  the  east-gate  of  Eden, 

(Eden  boicer's  in  flower.} 

Where  God  joined  them  and  none  might  sever 
The  sword  turns  this  way  and  that  for  ever. 

"  What  of  Adam  cast  out  of  Eden  ? 

(And  0  the  bower  and  the  hour  /) 
Lo  !  with  care  like  a  shadow  shaken, 
He  tills  the  hard  earth  whence  he  was  taken. 

"  What  of  Eve  too,  cast  out  of  Eden  ? 

(Eden  bower's  infloicer.) 
Nay,  but  she,  the  bride  01  God's  giving, 
Must  yet  be  mother  of  all  ^uen  living. 

"  Lo,  God's  grace,  by  the  grace  of  Lilith  ! 

(And  0  the  bower  and  the  hour  !) 
To  Eve's  womb,  from  our  sweet  to-morrow, 
God  shall  greatly  multiply  sorrow. 

"Fold  me  fast,  O  God-snake  of  Eden  ! 

(Eden  bower's  in  flower.) 
What  more  prize  than  love  impel  thee  ? 
Grip  and  lip  my  limbs  as  I  tell  thee  ! 

"  Lo  !  two  babes  for  Eve  and  for  Adam  ! 

(And  O  the  bower  and  the  hour  !) 
Lo  !  sweet  Snake,  the  travail  and  treasure, — 
Two  men-children  born  for  their  pleasure  ! 

"  The  first  is  Cain  and  the  second  Abel  : 
(Eden  boicer's  in  flower.) 
The  soul  of  one  shall  be  made  thy  brother, 
And  thy  tongue  shall  lap  the  blood  of  the  other." 
(And  0  the  bower  and  the  hour!) 


A  VE.  41 


AVE. 

Mother  of  the  fair  Delight, 
Thou  handmaid  perfect  in  God's  sight, 
Now  sitting  forth  beside  the  three, 
Thyself  a  woman-Trinity, — 
Being  a  daughter  borne  to  God, 
Mother  of  Christ  from  stall  to  rood, 
And  wife  unto  the  Holy  Ghost  :  — 
Oh  when  our  need  is  uttermost, 
Think  that  to  such  as  death  may  strike 
Thou  once  wert  sister  sisterlike  ! 
Thou  headstone  of  humanity, 
Groundstone  of  the  great  Mystery, 
Fashioned  like  us,  yet  more  than  we  ! 

Mind'st  thou  not  (when  June's  heavy  breath 
Warmed  the  long  days  in  Nazareth,) 
That  eve  thou  didst  go  forth  to  give 
Thy  flowers  some  drink  that  they  might  live 
One  faint  night  more  amid  the  sands  ? 
Far  off  the  trees  were  as  pale  wands 
Against  the  fervid  sky  :  the  sea 
Sighed  further  off  eternally 
As  human  sorrow  sighs  in  sleep. 
Then  suddenly  the  awe  grew  deep, 
As  of  a  day  to  which  all  days 
Were  footsteps  in  God's  secret  ways  : 
Until  a  folding  sense,  like  prayer, 
Which  is,  as  God  is,  everywhere, 
Gathered  about  thee  ;  and  a  voice 
Spake  to  thee  without  any  noise, 
Being  of  the  silence  :  — "  Hail,"  it  said, 
"  Thou  that  art  highly  favored  ; 
The  Lord  is  with  thee  here  and  now  ; 
Blessed  among  all  women  thou." 

Ah  !  knew'st  thou  of  the  end,  when  first 
That  Babe  was  on  thy  bosom  nurs'd  ?— = 


43  AVE. 

Or  when  He  tottered  round  thy  knee 
Did  thy  great  sorrow  dawn  on  thee?  — 
And  through  His  boyhood,  year  by  year 
Eating  with  him  the  passover, 
Didst  thou  discern  confusedly 
That  holier  sacrament,  when  he, 
The  bitter  cup  about  to  quaff, 
Should  break  the  bread  and  eat  thereof  ?  — 
Or  came  not  yet  the  knowledge,  even 
Till  on  some  day  forecast  in  Heaven 
His  feet  passed  through  thy  door  to  press 
Upon  His  Father's  business  ?  — 
Or  still  was  God's  high  secret  kept  ? 

Nay,  but  I  think  the  whisper  crept 
Like  growth  through  childhood.     Work  and  play, 
Things  common  to  the  course  of  day, 
Awed  thee  with  meanings  unfulfill'd  ; 
And  all  through  girlhood,  something  still'd 
Thy  senses  like  the  birth  of  light, 
When  thou  hast  trimmed  thy  lamp  at  night 
Or  washed  thy  garments  in  the  stream  ; 
To  whose  white  bed  had  come  the  dream 
That  He  was  thine  and  thou  wast  His 
Who  feeds  among  the  field-lilies. 
O  solemn  shadow  of  the  end 
In  that  wise  spirit  long  contain'd  ! 
O  awful  end  !  and  those  unsaid 
Long  years  when  It  was  Finished  ! 

Mind'st  thou  not  (when  the  twilight  gone 
Left  darkness  in  the  house  of  John,) 
Between  the  naked  window-bars 
rj*hat  spacious  vigil  of  the  stars  ?  — 
For  thou,  a  watcher  even  as  they, 
Wouldst  rise  from  where  throughout  the  day 
Thou  wroughtest  raiment  for  His  poor, 
And,  finding  the  fixed  terms  endure 
Of  day  and  night  which,  never  brought  t 
Sounds  of  His  coming  chariot, 


AVE.  43 

Wouldst  lift  through  cloud  waste  unexplor'd 

Those  eyes  which  said,  "  How  long,  O  Lord  ?  " 

Then  that  disciple  whom  He  loved, 

Well  heeding,  haply  would  be  moved 

To  ask  thy  blessing  in  His  name  ; 

And  that  one  thought  in  both,  the  same 

Though  silent,  then  would  clasp  ye  round 

To  weep  together, —  tears  long  lound, 

Sick  tears  of  patience,  dumb  and  slow. 

Yet,  "  Surely  I  come  quickly," —  so 

He  said,  from  life  and  death  gone  home. 

Amen  :  even  so,  Lord  Jesus,  come  ! 

But  oh  !  what  human  tongue  can  speak 
That  day  when  Michael  came  *  to  break 
From  the  tir'd  spirit,  like  a  veil, 
Its  covenant  with  Gabriel 
Endured  at  length  unto  the  end? 
"What  human  thought  can  apprehend 
That  mystery  of  motherhood 
When  thy  Beloved  at  length  renew'd 
The  sweet  communion  severed, — 
His  left  hand  underneath  thine  head 
And  His  right  hand  embracing  thee?  — 
Lo  !  He  was  thine,  and  this  is  He  ! 

Soul,  is  it  Faith,  or  Love,  or  Hope, 

That  lets  me  see  her  standing  up 

Where  the  light  of  the  Throne  is  bright  ? 

Unto  the  left,  unto  the  right, 

The  cherubim,  arrayed,  conjoint, 

Float  inward  to  a  golden  point, 

And  from  between  the  seraphim 

The  glory  issues  for  a  hymn. 

O  Mary  Mother,  be  not  loth 

To  listen, —  thou  whom  the  stars  clothe, 

Who  seest  and  mayst  not  be  seen  ! 

Hear  us  at  last,  O  Mary  Queen  ! 

*  A  Church  legend  of  the  Blessed  Virgin's  death. 


44  THE  STAFF  AND  SCRIP. 

Into  our  shadow  bend  thy  face, 
Bowing  thee  from  the  secret  place, 
O  Mary  Virgin,  full  of  grace  ! 


THE  STAFF  AND  SCRIP. 

""Who  rules  these  lands?"  the  Pilgrim  said. 

"Stranger,  Queen  Blanchelys." 
"  And  who  has  thus  harried  them  ?  "  he  said. 

"  It  was  Duke  Luke  did  this  : 
God's  ban  be  his  !  " 

The  Pilgrim  said  :     "  Where  is  your  house  ? 

I'll  rest  there,  with  your  will." 
"  You've  but  to  climb  these  blackened  boughs 

And  you'll  see  it  over  the  hill, 
For  it  burns  still." 

"  Which  road,  to  seek  your  Queen  ?  "  said  he. 

"Nay,  nay,  but  with  some  wound 
You'll  fly  back  hither,  it  may  be, 

And  by  your  blood  i'  the  ground 
My  place  be  found." 

"  Friend,  stay  in  peace.     God  keep  your  head, 

And  mine,  where  I  will  go  ; 
For  He  is  here  and  there,"  he  said. 

He  passed  the  hill-side,  slow, 
And  stood  below. 

The  Queen  sat  idle  by  her  loom  : 

She  heard  the  arras  stir, 
And  looked  up  sadly  :  through  the  room 

The  sweetness  sickened  her 
Of  musk  and  myrrh. 


THE  STAFF  AND  SCRIP.  45 

Her  women,  standing  two  and  two, 

In  silence  combed  the  fleece. 
The  pilgrim  said,  "  Peace  be  with  you, 

Lady  ; "  and  bent  his  knees. 
She  answered,  "  Peace." 

Her  eyes  were  like  the  wave  within  ; 

Like  water-reeds  the  poise 
Of  her  soft  body,  dainty  thin  ; 

And  like  the  water's  noise 
Her  plaintive  voice. 

For  him,  the  stream  had  never  well'd 

In  desert  tracts  malign 
So  sweet ;  nor  had  he  ever  felt 

So  faint  in  the  sunshine 
Of  Palestine. 

Right  so,  he  knew  that  he  saw  weep 
Each  night  through  every  dream 

The  Queen's  own  face,  confused  in  sleep 
With  visages  supreme 
Not  known  to  him. 

"  Lady,"  he  said,  "  your  lands  lie  burnt 

And  waste  :  to  meet  your  foe 
All  fear  :  this  I  have  seen  and  learnt. 

Say  that  it  shall  be  so, 
And  I  will  go." 

She  gazed  at  him.     "Your  cause  is  just, 

For  I  have  heard  the  same  : " 
He  said  :  "  God's  strength  shall  be  my  trust. 

Fall  it  to  good  or  grame, 
'Tis  in  His  name." 

"  Sir,  you  are  thanked.     My  cause  is  dead; 

Why  should  you  toil  to  break 
A  grave,  and  fall  therein  ?  "  she  said. 

He  did  not  pause  but  spake  : 
"  For  my  vow's  sake." 


46  THE  STAFF  AND  SCRIP. 

"  Can  such  vows  be,  Sir  —  to  God's  ear, 
Not  to  God's  will  ?  "  "  My  vow 

Remains  :  God  heard  me  there  as  here," 
He  said  with  reverent  brow, 
"  Both  then  and  now." 

They  gazed  together,  he  and  she, 

The  minute  while  he  spoke  ; 
And  when  he  ceased,  she  suddenly 

Looked  round  upon  her  folk 
As  though  she  woke. 

"  Fight,  Sir,"  she  said  :  "  my  prayers  in  pain 

Shall  be  your  fellowship." 
He  whispered  one  among  her  train, — 

"  To-morrow  bid  her  keep 
This  staff  and  scrip." 

She  sent  him  a  sharp  sword,  whose  belt 

About  his  body  there 
As  sweet  as  her  own  arms  he  felt. 

He  kissed  its  blade,  all  bare, 
Instead  of  her. 

She  sent  him  a  green  banner  wrought 

With  one  white  lily  stem, 
To  find  his  lance  with  when  he  fought. 

He  writ  upon  the  same 
And  kissed  her  name. 

She  sent  him  a  white  shield,  whereon 

She  bade  that  he  should  trace 
His  will.     He  blent  fair  hues  that  shone, 
And  in  a  golden  space 
He  kissed  her  face. 

Born  of  the  day  that  died,  that  eve 

Now  dying  sank  to  rest  ; 
As  he,  in  likewise  taking  leave, 

Once  with  a  heaving  breast 
Looked  to  the  west. 


THE  STAFF  AND  SCRIP.  47 

And  there  the  sunset  skies  unseal'd 

Like  lands  he  never  knew, 
Beyond  to-morrow's  battle-field 

Lay  open  out  of  view 
To  ride  into. 

Next  day  till  dark  the  women  pray'd 

Nor  any  might  know  there 
How  the  fight  went :  the  Queen  has  bade 

That  there  do  come  to  her 
No  messenger. 

The  Queen  is  pale,  her  maidens  ail ; 

And  to  the  organ-tones 
They  sing  but  faintly,  who  sang  well 

The  matin-orisons, 
The  lauds  and  nones. 

Lo,  Father,  is  thine  ear  inclin'd, 

And  hath  thine  angel  pass'd  ? 
For  these  thy  watchers  now  are  blind 

With  vigil,  and  at  last 
Dizzy  with  fast. 

Weak  now  to  them  the  voice  o*  the  priest 

As  any  trance  affords  ; 
And  when  each  anthem  failed  and  ceas'd, 

It  seemed  that  the  last  chords 
Still  sang  the  words. 

"  Oh  what  is  the* light  that  shines  so  red  ? 

'  Tis  long  since  the  sun  set  ; " 
Quoth  the  youngest  to  the  eldest  maid  : 

"  'Twas  dim  but  now,  and  yet 
The  light  is  great." 

Quoth  the  other  :  "  'Tis  our  sight  is  dazed 

That  we  see  flame  i'  the  air." 
But  the  Queen  held  her  brows  and  gazed, 

And  said,  "  It  is  tfye  glare 
Of  torches  there." 


THE  STAFF  AND  SCRIP. 

"  Oh  what  are  the  sounds  that  rise  and  spread  ? 

All  day  it  was  so  still  ; " 
Quoth  the  youngest  to  the  eldest  maid  : 

"  Unto  the  furthest  hill 
The  air  they  fill." 

Quoth  the  other  :  "  'Tis  our  sense  is  blurr'd 

With  all  the  chants  gone  by." 
But  the  Queen  held  her  breath  and  heard, 

And  said,  "  It  is  the  cry 
Of  Victory." 

The  first  of  all  the  rout  was  sound, 

The  next  were  dust  and  flame, 
And  then  the  horses  shook  the  ground  : 

And  in  the  thick  of  them 
A  still  band  came. 

"  Oh  what  do  ye  bring  out  of  the  fight, 
Thus  hid  beneath  these  boughs  ?  " 

"  Thy  conquering  guest  returns  to-night, 
And  yet  shall  not  carouse, 
Queen,  in  thy  house." 

"  Uncover  ye  his  face,"  she  said. 

"  O  changed  in  little  space  !  " 
She  cried,  "  O  pale  that  was  so  red  j 

O  God,  O  God  of  grace  ! 
Cover  his  face." 

His  sword  was  broken  in  his  hand 

Where  he  had  kissed  the  blade. 
"  O  soft  steel  that  could  not  withstand  ! 

O  my  hard  heart  unstayed, 
That  prayed  and  prayed  !  " 

His  bloodied  banner  crossed  his  mouth 

Where  he  had  kissed  her  name. 
"  O  east,  and  west,  and  north,  and  south, 

Fair  flew  my  web,  for  shame, 
To  guide  Death's  aim  !  " 


THE  STAFF  AND  SCRIP.  49 

The  tints  were  shredded  from  his  shield 

Where  he  had  kissed  her  face. 
"  Oh,  of  all  gifts  that  I  could  yield, 

Death  only  keeps  its  place, 
My  gift  and  grace  ! " 

Then  stepped  a  damsel  to  her  side, 
And  spoke,  and  needs  must  weep  : 

"  For  his  sake,  lady,  if  he  died, 

He  prayed  of  thee  to  keep 

This  staff  and  scrip." 

That  night  they  hung  above  her  bed, 

Till  morning  wet  with  tears. 
Year  after  year  above  her  head 

Her  bed  his  token  wears, 
Five  years,  ten  years. 

That  night  the  passion  of  her  grief 

Shook  them  as  there  they  hung. 
Each  year  the  wind  that  shed  the  leaf 

Shook  them  and  in  its  tongue 
A  message  flung. 

And  once  she  woke  with  a  clear  mind 

That  letters  writ  to  calm 
Her  soul  lay  in  the  scrip  ;  to  find 

Only  a  torpid  balm 
And  dust  of  palm. 

They  shook  far  off  with  palace  sport 
When  joust  and  dance  were  rife  ; 

And  the  hunt  shook  them  from  the  court  ; 
For  hers,  in  peace  or  strife, 
Was  a  Queen's  life. 

A  Queen's  death  now  :  as  now  they  shake 

To  gusts  in  chapel  dim, — 
Hung  where  she  sleeps,  not  seen  to  wake 

(Carved  lovely  white  and  slim), 
With  them  by  him. 


50  A  LAST  CONFESSION. 

Stand  up  to-day,  still  armed,  with  her, 

Good  knight,  before  His  brow 
Who  then  as  now  was  here  and  there, 
Who  had  in  mind  thy  vow 
Then  even  as  now. 

• 
The  lists  are  set  in  Heaven  to-day, 

The  bright  pavilions  shine  ; 
Fair  hangs  thy  shield,  and  none  gainsay  ; 
The  trumpets  sound  in  sign 
That  she  is  thine. 

Not  tithed  with  days'  and  years'  decease 
He  pays  thy  wage  He  owed, 

But  with  imperishable  pe.ace 
Here  in  His  own  abode, 
Thy  jealous  God. 


A  LAST  CONFESSION. 

(IRegno  JLombardo  -  Veneto,  1848.) 


OUR  Lombard  country-girls  along  the  coast 
Wear  daggers  in  their  garters  ;  for  they  know 
That  they  might  bate  another  girl  to  death 
Or  meet  a  German  lover.     Such  a  knife 
I  bought  her,  with  a  hilt  of  horn  and  pearl. 

Father,  you  cannot  know  of  all  my  thoughts 
That  day  in  going  to  meet  her, —  that  last  day 
For  the  last  time,  she  said;  —  of  all  the  love 
And  all  the  hopeless  hope  that  she  might  change 
And  go  back  with  me.     Ah  !  and  everywhere, 
At  places  we  both  knew  along  the  road, 
Some  fresh  shape  of  herself  as  once  she  was 


A  LAST  CONFESSION.  51 

Grew  present  at  my  side  ;  until  it  seemed  — 

So  close  they  gathered  round  me  —  they  would  all 

Be  with  me  when  I  reached  the  spot  at  last, 

To  plead  my  cause  with  her  against  herself 

So  changed.     O  Father,  if  you  knewnall  this 

You  cannot  know,  then  you  would  know  too,  Father, 

And  only  then,  if  God  can  pardon  me. 

What  can  be  told  I'll  tell,  if  you  will  hear. 

I  passed  a  village-fair  upon  my  road, 
And  thought,  being  empty-handed,  I  would  take 
Some  little  present  :  such  might  prove,  I  said, 
Either  a  pledge  between  us,  or  (God  help  me  !) 
A  parting  gift.     And  there  it  was  I  bought 
The  knife  I  spoke  of,  such  as  women  wear. 

That  day,  some  three  hours  afterwards,  I  found 
For  certain,  it  must  be  a  parting  gift. 
And,  standing  silent  now  at  last,  I  looked 
Into  her  scornful  face  ;  and  heard  the  sea 
Still  trying  hard  to  din  into  my  ears 
Some  speech  it  knew  which  still  might  change  her 

heart 

If  only  it  could  make  me  understand. 
One  moment  thus.     Another,  and  her  face 
Seemed  further  off  than  the  last  line  of  sea, 
So  that  I  thought,  if  now  she  were  to  speak 
I  could  not  hear  her.     Then  again  I  knew 
All,  as  we  stood  together  on  the  sand 
At  Iglio,  in  the  first  thin  shade  o'  the  hills. 

"  Take  it,"  I  said,  and  held  it  out  to  her, 
While  the  hilt  glanced  within  my  trembling  hold  ; 
"  Take  it  and  keep  it  for  my  sake,"  I  said. 
Her  neck  unbent  not,  neither  did  her  eyes 
Move,  nor  her  foot  left  beating  of  the  sand  ; 
Only  she  put  it  by  from  her  and  laughed. 

Father,  you  hear  my  speech  and  not  her  laugh  ; 
But  God  heard  that.      Will  God  remember  all  ? 


&  A  LAST  CONFESSION. 

It  was  another  laugh  than  the  sweet  sound 
Which  rose  from  her  sweet  childish  heart,  that  day 
Eleven  years  before,  when  first  I  found  her 
Alone  upon  the  hill-side  ;  and  her  curls 
Shook  down  in  fhe  warm  grass  as  she  looked  up 
Out  of  her  curls  in  my  eyes  bent  to  hers. 
She  might  have  served  a  painter  to  portray 
That  heavenly  child  which  in  the  latter  days 
Shall  walk  between  the  lion  and  the  lamb. 
I  had  been  for  nights  in  hiding,  worn  and  sick 
And  hardly  fed  ;  and  so  her  words  at  first 
Seemed  fitful  like  the  talking  of  the  trees 
And  voices  in  the  air  that  knew  my  name. 
And  I  remember  that  I  sat  me  down 
Upon  the  slope  with  her,  and  thought  the  world 
Must  be  all  over  or  had  never  been, 
We  seemed  there  so  alone.     And  soon  she  told  me 
Her  parents  both  were  gone  away  from  her. 
I  thought  perhaps  she  meant  that  they  had  died  ; 
But  when  I  asked  her  this,  she  looked  again 
Into  my  face,  and  said  that  yestereve 
They  kissed  her  long,  and  wept  and  made  her  weep, 
And  gave  her  all  the  bread  they  had  with  them, 
And  then  had  gone  together  up  the  hill 
Where  we  were  sitting  now,  and  had  walked  on 
Into  the  great  red  light  ;  "  and  so,"  she  said, 
"  I  have  come  up  here  too  ;  and  when  this  evening 
They  step  out  of  the  light  as  they  stepped  in, 
I  shall  be  here  to  kiss  them."  And  she  laughed. 

Then  I  bethought  me  suddenly  of  the  famine  ; 
And  how  the  church-steps  throughout  all  the  town, 
When  last  I  had  been  there  a  month  ago, 
Swarmed  with  starved  folk  ;  and  how  the  bread  was 

weighed 

By  Austrians  armed  ;  and  women  that  I  knew 
For  wives  and  mothers  walked  the  public  street, 
Saying  aloud  that  if  their  husbands  feared 
To  snatch  the  children's  food,  themselves  would  stay 
Till  they  had  earned  it  there.     So  then  this  child 


A  LAS T  CONFESSION.  53 

"Was  piteous  to  me  ;  for  all  told  me  then 

Her  parents  must  have  left  her  to  God's  chance, 

To  man's  or  to  the  Church's  charity, 

Because  of  the  great  famine,  rather  than 

To  watch  her  growing  thin  between  their  knees. 

With  that,  God  took  my  mother's  voice  and  spoke, 

And  sights  and  sounds  came  back  and  things  long 

since, 

And  all  my  childhood  found  me  on  the  hills  ; 
And  so  I  took  her  with  me. 

I  was  young, 

Scarce  man  then,  Father  ;  but  the  cause  which  gave 
The  wounds  I  die  of  now  had  brought  me  then 
Some  wounds  already  ;  and  I  lived  alone, 
As  any  hiding  hunted  man  must  live. 
It  was  no  easy  thing  to  keep  a  child 
In  safety  ;  for  herself  it  was  not  safe, 
And  doubled  my  own  danger  ;  but  I  knew 
That  God  would  help  me. 

Yet  a  little  while 

Pardon  me,  Father,  if  I  pause.     I  think 
I  have  been  speaking  to  you  of  some  matters 
There  was  no  need  to  speak  of,  have  I  not  ? 
You  do  not  know  how  clearly  those  things  stood 
Within  my  mind,  Avhich  I  have  spoken  of, 
Nor  how  they  strove  for  utterance.     Life  all  past 
Is  like  the  sky  when  the  sun  sets  in  it, 
Clearest  where  furthest  off. 

I  told  you  how 

She  scorned  my  parting  gift  and  laughed.     And  yet 
A  woman's  laugh's  another  thing  sometimes  : 
I  think  they  laugh  in  Heaven.     I  know  last  night 
I  dreamed  I  saw  into  the  garden  of  God, 
Where  women  walked  whose  painted  images 
I  have  seen  with  candles  round  them  in  the  church. 
They  bent  this  way  and  that,  one  to  another, 
Playing  :  and  over  the  long  golden  hair 
Of  each  there  floated  like  a  ring  of  fire 


54  A  LAST  CONFESSION. 

Which  when  she  stooped  stooped  with  her,  and  when 

she  rose 

Rose  with  her.     Then  a  breeze  flew  in  among  them, 
As  if  a  window  had  been  opened  in  heaven 
For  God  to  give  his  blessing  from,  before 
This  world  of  ours  should  set ;  (for  in  my  dream 
I  thought  our  world  was  setting,  and  the  sun 
Flared,  a  spent  taper  ;)  and  beneath  that  gust 
The  rings  of  light  quivered  like  forest-leaves. 
Then  all  the  blessed  maidens  who  were  there 
Stood  up  together,  as  it  were  a  voice 
That  called  them  ;  and  they  threw  their  tresses  back, 
And  smote  their  palms,  and  all  laughed  up  at  once, 
For  the  strong  heavenly  joy  they  had  in  them 
To  hear  God  bless  the  world.     Wherewith  I  woke  : 
And  looking  round,  I  saw  as  usual 
That  she  was  standing  there  with  her  long  locks 
Pressed  to  her  side  ;  and  her  laugh  ended  theirs. 

For  always  when  I  see  her  now,  she  laughs. 
And  yet  her  childish  laughter  haunts  me  too, 
The  life  of  this  dead  terror  ;  as  in  days 
When  she,  a  child,  dwelt  with  me.     I  must  tell 
Something  of  those  days  yet  before  the  end. 

I  brought  her  from  the  city  —  one  such  day 
When  she  was  still  a  merry,  loving  child, — 
The  earliest  gift  I  mind  my  giving  her  ; 
A  little  image  of  a  flying  Love 
Made  of  our  colored  glass-ware,  in  his  hands 
A  dart  of  gilded  metal  and  a  torch. 
And  him  she  kissed  and  me,  and  fain  would  know 
Why  were  his  poor  eyes  blindfold,  why  the  wings 
And  why  the  arrow.     What  I  knew  I  told 
Of  Venus  and  of  Cupid, —  strange  old  tales. 
And  when  she  heard  that  he  could  rule  the  loves 
Of  men  and  women,  still  she  shook  her  head 
And  wondered  ;  and,  "Nay,  nay,"  she  murmured  still, 
"  So  strong,  and  he  a  younger  child  than  I  !  " 
And  then  she'd  have  me  fix  him  on  the  Avail 


A  LAST  CONFESSION.  55 

Fronting  her  little  bed  ;  and  then  again 

She  needs  must  fix  him  there  herself,  because 

I  gave  him  to  her  and  she  loved  him  so, 

And  he  should  make  her  love  me  better  yet, 

If  women  loved  the  more,  the  more  they  grew. 

But  the  fit  place  upon  the  wall  was  high 

For  her,  and  so  I  held  her  in  my  arms  : 

And  each  time  that  the  heavy  pruning-hook 

I  gave  her  for  a  hammer  slipped  away 

As  it  would  often,  still  she  laughed  and  laughed 

And  kissed  and  kissed  me.     But  amid  her  mirth, 

Just  as  she  hung  the  image  on  the  nail, 

It  slipped  and  all  its  fragments  strewed  the  ground  : 

And  as  it  fell  she  screamed,  for  in  her  hand 

The  dart  had  entered  deeply  and  drawn  blood. 

And  so  her  laughter  turned  to  tears  :  and  "  Oh  ! " 

I  said,  the  while  I  bandaged  the  small  hand, — 

"  That  I  should  be  the  first  to  make  you  bleed, 

Who  love  and  love  and  love  you  !  "  —  kissing  still 

The  fingers  till  I  got  her  safe  to  bed. 

And  still  she  sobbed, —  "  not  for  the  pain  at  all," 

She  said,  "but  for  the  Love,  the  poor  good  Love 

You  gave  me."     So  she  cried  herself  to  sleep. 

Another  later  thing  comes  back  to  me. 
'Twas  in  those  hardest  foulest  days  of  all, 
When  still  from  his  shut  palace,  sitting  clean 
Above  the  splash  of  blood,  old  Metternich 
(May  his  soul  die,  and  never-dying  worms 
Feast  on  its  pain  for  ever  !)  used  to  thin 
His  year's  doomed  hundreds  daintily,  each  month 
Thirties  and  fifties.     This  time,  as  I  think, 
Was  when  his  thrift  forbade  the  poor  to  take 
That  evil  brackish  salt  which  the  dry  rocks 
Keep  all  through  winter  \vhen  the  sea  draws  in. 
The  first  I  heard  of  it  was  a  chance  shot 
In  the  street  here  and  there,  and  on  the  stones 
A  stumbling  clatter  as  of  horse  hemmed  round. 
Then,  when  she  saw  me  hurry  oiit  of  doors, 
My  gun  slung  at  my  shoulder  and  my  knife 


56  A  LAST  CONFESSION. 

Stuck  in  my  girdle,  she  smoothed  down  my  hair 
And  laughed  to  see  me  look  so  brave,  and  leaped 
Up  to  my  neck  and  kissed  me.     She  was  still 
A  child  ;  and  yet  that  kiss  was  on  my  lips 
So  hot  all  day  where  the  smoke  shut  us  in. 

For  now,  being  always  with  her,  the  first  love 
I  had  —  the  father's,  brother's  love  —  was  changed, 
I  think,  in  somewise  ;  like  a  holy  thought 
"Which  is  a  prayer  before  one  knows  of  it. 
The  first  time  1  perceived  this,  I  remember, 
Was  once  when  after  hunting  I  came  home 
Weary,  and  she  brought  food  and  fruit  for  me, 
And  sat  down  at  my  feet  upon  the  floor 
Leaning  against  my  side.     But  when  I  felt 
Her  sweet  head  reach  from  that  low  seat  of  hers 
So  high  as  to  be  laid  upon  my  heart, 
I  turned  and  looked  upon  my  darling  there 
And  marked  for  the  first  time  how  tall  she  was  ; 
And  my  heart  beat  with  so  much  violence 
Under  her  cheek,  I  thought  she  could  not  choose 
But  wonder  at  it  soon  and  ask  me  why  ; 
And  so  I  bade  her  rise  and  eat  with  me. 
And  when,  remembering  all  and  counting  back 
The  time,  I  made  out  fourteen  years  for  her 
And  told  her  so,  she  gazed  at  me  with  eyes 
As  of  the  sky  and  sea  on  a  gray  day, 
And  drew  her  long  hands  through  her  hair,  and  asked 

me 

If  she  was  not  a  woman  ;  and  then  laughed  : 
And  as  she  stooped  in  laughing,  I  could  see 
Beneath  the  growing  throat  the  breasts  half  globed 
Like  folded  lilies  deepset  in  the  stream. 

Yes,  let  me  think  of  her  as  then  ;  for  so 
Her  image,  Father,  is  not  like  the  sights 
Which  come  when  you  are  gone.     She  had  a  mouth 
Made  to  bring  death  to  life, —  the  underlip 
Sucked  in,  as  if  it  strove  to  kiss  itself. 
Her  face  was  ever  pale,  as  when  one  stoops 


A  LAST  CONFESSION.  57 

Over  wan  water  ;  and  the  dark  crisped  hair 

And  the  hair's  shadow  made  it  paler  still  :  — 

Deep-serried  locks,  the  darkness  of  the  cloud 

Where  the  moon's  gaze  is  set  in  eddying  gloom. 

Her  body  bore  her  neck  as  the  tree's  stem 

Bears  the  top  branch  ;  and  as  the  branch  sustains 

The  flower  of  the  year's  pride,  her  high  neck  bore 

That  face  made  wonderful  with  night  and  day. 

Her  voice  was  swift,  yet  ever  the  last  words 

Fell  lingeringly  ;  and  rounded  finger-tips 

She  had,  that  clung  a  little  where  they  touched 

And  then  were  gone  o'  the  instant.     Her  great  eyes, 

That  sometimes  turned  half  dizzily  beneath 

The  passionate  lids,  as  faint,  when  she  would  speak, 

Had  also  in  them  hidden  springs  of  mirth,- 

Which  under  the  dark  lashes  evermore 

Shook  to  her  laugh,  as  when  a  bird  flies  low 

Between  the  water  and  the  willow-leaves, 

And  the  shade  quivers  till  he  wins  the  light. 

I  was  a  moody  comrade  to  her  then, 
For  all  the  love  I  bore  her.     Italy, 
The  weeping  desolate  mother,  long  has  claimed 
Her  son's  strong  arms  to  lean  on,  and  their  hands 
To  lop  the  poisonous  thicket  from  her  path, 
Cleaving  her  way  to  light.     And  from  her  need 
Had  grown  the  fashion  of  my  whole  poor  life 
Which  I  was  proud  to  yield  her,  as  my  father 
Had  yielded  his.     And  this  had  come  to  be 
A  game  to  play,  a  love  to  clasp,  a  hate 
To  wreak,  all  things  together  that  a  man 
Needs  for  his  blood  to  ripen  :  till  at  times 
All  else  seemed  shadows,  and  I  wondered  still 
To  see  such  life  pass  muster  and  be  deemed 
Time's  bodily  substance.     In  those  hours,  no  doubt, 
To  the  young  girl  my  eyes  were  like  my  soul, — 
Dark  wells  of  death-in-life  that  yearned  for  day. 
And  though  she  ruled  me  always,  I  remember 
That  once  when  I  was  thus  and  she  still  kept 
Leaping  about  the  place  and  laughing,  I 


58 


A  LAST  CONFESSION. 


Did  almost  chide  her  ;  whereupon  she  knelt 
And  putting  her  two  hands  into  my  breast 
Sang  me  a  song.     Are  these  tears  in  my  eyes  ? 
'  Tis  long  since  I  have  wept  for  anything. 
I  thought  that  song  forgotten  out  of  mind, 
And  now,  just  as  I  spoke  it,  it  came 
All  back.     It  is  but  a  rude  thing,  ill  rhymed, 
Such  as  a  blind  man  chaunts  and  his  dog  hears 
Holding  the  platter,  when  the  children  run 
To  merrier  sport  and  leave  him.     Thus  it  goes 


La  bella  donna  * 
Piangeudo  disse: 
"  Come  son  fisse 
Le  stelle  in  cielo  ! 
Quel  fiato  anelo 
Dello  stanco  sole, 
Quanto  m'  assonna  ! 
E  la  luna,  mucchiata 


*  She  wept,  sweet  lady, 
And  said  in  weeping: 
"  What  spell  is  keeping 
The  stars  so  steady  ? 
Why  does  the  power 
Of  the  sun's  noon-hour 
To  sleep  so  move  me  ? 
And  the  moon  in  heaven, 
Stained  where  she  passes 
As  a  worn-out  glass  is, — 
Wearily  driven, 
Why  walks  she  above  me  ? 

"  Stars,  moon,  and  sun  too, 
I'm  tired  of  either 
And  all  together  ! 
Whom  speak  they  unto 
That  I  should  listen  t 
For  very  surely, 

Though  my  arms  and  shoulders 
Dazzle  beholders. 
And  my  eyes  glisten, 
All's  nothing  purely  ! 
What  are  words  said  for 
At  all  about  them. 
If  he  they  are  made  for 
Can  do  without  them  ?  " 

She  laughed,  sweet  lady, 
And  said  m  laughing: 
•'  His  hand  clings  half  in 


My  own  already ! 
Oh  !  do  you  love  me  ? 
Oh  !  speak  of  passion 
In  no  new  fashion, 
No  loud  inveighings, 
But  the  old  sayings 
You  once  said"  of  me. 


"  Ton  said  :  '  As  summer. 
Through  bough*  grown  brittle 
Comes  back  a  little 
Ere  frosts  benumb  her, — 
So  bring'st  thou  to  me 
All  leaves  and  flower-s. 
Though  autumn's  gloomy 
To-day  in  the  bowers.' 


"  Oh  !  does  he  love  me, 
When  my  voice  teaches 
The  very  speeches 
He  then  spoke  of  me  ? 
Alas  !  what  flavor 
Still  with  me  lingers  ?" 
[But  she  laughed  as  my  kisses 
Glowed  in  her  fingers 
With  love's  old  blisses.] 
"  Oh  !  what  one  favor 
Remains  to  woo  him. 
Whose  whole  poor  savor 
Belongs  not  to  him," 


A  LAST  CONFESSION. 

Come  uno  specchio 
Logoro  e  vecchio, — 
Faccia  affannata, 
Che  cosa  vuole  ? 


"  Che  stelle,  luna,  e  sole, 
Ciascun  m'  auuoja 
E  m'  annojano  insieme  ; 
Noii  me  ne  preme 
Ne  ci  prendo  gioja. 
E  verarnente, 
Che  le  spalle  sien  franche 
E  la  braccia  bianchc 
E  il  seno  caldo  e  tondo, 
Non  mi  fa  niente. 
Cbe  cosa  al  mondo 
Posso  piu  far  di  questi 
Se  non  piacciono  a  te,  corne  dicesti 

La  donna  rise 

E  riprese  ridendo:  — 

"  Questa  mano  cbe  prendo 

E  dunque  mia  ? 

Tu  m'  ami  duuque  ? 

Dimmelo  ancora, 

Non  in  modo  qualunque, 

Me  la  parole 

Belle  e  precise 

Che  dicesti  pria. 

"  Siccome  suole 
La  state  {alora 
(Dicesti)  un  qualcJte  isiante 
Tornare  innanzi  inverno, 
Cosi  tufai  ch'  io  scerno 
Lefoglie  tutte  quante, 
Ben  ch'  io  certo  tenesst 
Per  passato  U  antunno. 

"  Eccoio  il  mio  alunno  ! 
Io  debbo  iusegnargli 
f  Quei  cari  detti  istessi 

Ch'  ei  mi  disse  uua  volta  ! 
Oime  !     Cbe  cosa  dargli," 
Ola  ridea  piano  piano 
Dei  baci  in  sulla  mano,) 
"  Ch'  ei  nou  m'  abbja  da  lungo  tempo  tolta  ? 


60  A  LAST  CONFESSION. 

That  I  should  sing  upon  this  bed  !  —  with  you 
To  listen,  and  such  words  still  left  to  say  ! 
Yet  was  it  I  that  sang  ?     The  voice  seemed  hers, 
As  on  the  very  day  she  sang  to  me  ; 
When,  having  done,  she  took  out  of  my  hand 
Something  that  I  had  played  with  all  the  while 
And  iaid  it  down  beyond  my  reach  ;  and  so 
Turning  my  face  round  till  it  fronted  hers, — 
"  Weeping  or  laughing,  which  was  best  ?  "  she  said. 

But  these  are  foolish  tales.     How  should  I  show 
The  heart  t-hat  glowed  then  with  love's  heat,  each  day 
More  and  more  brightly?  —  when  for  long  years  now 
The  very  flame  that  flew  about  the  heart, 
And  gave  it  fiery  wings,  has  come  to  be 
The  lapping  blaze  of  hell's  environment 
Whose  tongues  all  bid  the  molten  heart  despair. 

Yet  one  more  thing  comes  back  on  me  to-night 
Which  I  may  tell  you  :  for  it  bore  my  soul 
Dread  firstlings  of  the  brood  that  rend  it  now. 
It  chanced  that  in  our  last  year's  wanderings 
We  dwelt  at  Monza,  far  away  from  home, 
If  home  we  had  :  and  in  the  Duomo  there 
I  sometimes  entered  with  her  when  she  prayed. 
An  image  of  Our  Lady  stands  there,  wrought 
In  marble  by  some  great  Italian  hand 
In  the  great  days  when  she  and  Italy 
Sat  on  one  throne  together  :  and  to  her 
And  to  none  else  my  loved  one  told  her  heart. 
She  was  a  woman  then  ;  and  as  she  knelt, — 
Her  sweet  brow  in  the  sweet  brow's  shadow  there, — 
They  seemed  two  kindred  forms  whereby  our  land 
(Whose  work  still  serves  the  world  for  miracle) 
Made  manifest  herself  in  womanhood. 
Father,  the  day  I  speak  of  was  the  first 
For  weeks  that  I  had  borne  her  company 
Into  the  Duoma  ;  and  those  weeks  had  been 
Much  troubled,  for  then  first  the  glimpses  came 
Of  some  impenetrable  restlessness 
Growing  in  her  to  make  her  changed  and  cold. 


A  LAST  COXTESSIdtf.  QV 

And  as  we  entered  there  that  day,  I  bent 

My  eyes  on  the  fair  Image,  and  I  said 

Within  my  heart,  "  Oh  turn  her  heart  to  me  !  " 

And  so  I  left  her  to  her  prayers,  and  went 

To  gaze  upon  the  pride  of  Monza's  shrine, 

Where  in  the  sacristy  the  light  still  falls 

Upon  the  Iron  Crown  of  Italy, 

On  whose  crowned  heads  the  day  has  closed,  nor  yet 

The  daybreak  gilds  another  head  to  crown. 

But  coming  back,  I  wondered  when  I  saw 

That  the  sweet  lady  of  her  prayers  now  stood 

Alone  without  her  ;  imtil  further  off, 

Before  some  new  Madonna  gayly  decked, 

Tinselled  and  gewgawed,  a  slight  German  toy, 

I  saw  her  kneel,  still  praying.     At  my  step 

She  rose,  and  side  by  side  we  left  the  church. 

I  was  much  moved,  and  sharply  questioned  her 

Of  her  transferred  devotion  ;  but  she  seemed 

Stubborn  and  heedless  ;  till  she  lightly  laughed 

And  said  :  "  The  old  Madonna  ?  Ay  indeed, 

She  had  my  old  thoughts, —  this  one  has  my  new." 

Then  silent  to  the  soul  I  held  my  way  : 

And  from  the  fountains  of  the  public  place 

Unto  the  pigeon-haunted  pinnacles, 

Bright  wings  and  water  winnowed  the  bright  air  ; 

And  stately  with  her  laugh's  subsiding  smile 

She  went,  with  clear-swayed  waist  and  towering  neck 

And  hands  held  light  before  her  ;  and  the  face 

Which  long  had  made  a  day  in  my  life's  night 

Was  night  in  day  to  me  ;  as  all  men's  eyes 

Turned  on  her  beauty,  and  she  seemed  to  tread 

Beyond  my  heart  to  the  world  made  for  her. 

Ah  there  !  my  woiinds  will  snatch  my  sense  again  : 
The  pain  comes  billowing  on  like  a  full  cloud 
Of  thunder,  and  the  flash  that  breaks  from  it 
Leaves  my  brain  burning.  That's  the  wound  he  gave, 
The  Austrian  whose  white  coat  I  still  made  match 
With  his  white  face,  only  the  two  were  red 
As  suits  his  trade.     The  devil  makes  them  wear 


62  A  LAST  CONFESSION. 

White  for  a  livery,  that  the  blood  may  show 
Braver  that  brings  them  to  him.     So  he  looks 
Sheer  o'er  the  field  and  knows  his  pwn  at  once. 

Give  me  a  draught  of  water  in  that  cup  ; 
My  voice  feels  thick  ;  perhaps  you  do  not  hear  ; 
But  you  must  hear.     If  you  mistake  my  words 
And  so  absolve  me,  I  am  sure  the  blessing 
Will  burn  my  soul.    If  you  mistake  my  words 
And  so  absolve  me,  Father,  the  great  sin 
Is  yours,  not  mine  :  mark  this  :  your  soul  shall  burn 
With  mine  for  it.     I  have  seen  pictures  where 
Souls  burned  with  Latin  shriekings  in  their  mouths  : 
Shall  my  end  be  as  theirs  ?  Nay,  but  I  know 
'  Tis  you  shall  shriek  in  Latin.     Some  bell  rings, 
Rings  through  my  brain  :  it  strikes  the  hour  in  hell. 

You  see  I  cannot,  Father  ;  I  have  tried, 
But  cannot,  as  you  see.     These  twenty  times 
Beginning,  I  have  come  to  the  same  point 
And  stopped.     Beyond,  there  are  but  broken  words 
Which  will  not  let  you  understand  my  tale. 
It  is  that  then  we  have  her  with  us  here, 
As  when  she  wrung  her  hair  out  in  my  dream 
To-night,  till  all  the  darkness  reeked  of  it. 
Her  hair  is,  always  wet,  for  she  has  kept 
Its  tresses  wrapped  about  her  side  for  years  ; 
And  when  she  wrung  them  round  over  the  floor, 
I  heard  the  blood  between  her  fingers  hiss ; 
So  that  I  sat  up  in  my  bed  and  screamed 
Once  and  again  ;    and  once  to  once,  she  laughed. 
Look  that  you  turn  not  now, —  she's  at  your  back  : 
Gather  your  rope  up,  Father,  and  keep  close, 
Or  she'll  sit  down  on  it  and  send  you  mad. 

At  Iglio  in  the  first  thin  shade  o'  the  hills 
The  sand  is  black  and  red.     The  black  was  black 
When  what  was  spilt  that  day  sank  into  it, 
And  the  red  scarcely  darkened.     There  I  stood 
This  night  with  her,  and  saw  the  sand  the  same. 
****** 


A  LAST  CONFESSION;  63 

"What  would  you  have  me  tell  you  ?  Father,  father, 
How  shall  I  make  you  know  ?  You  have  not  known 
The  dreadful  soul  of  woman,  who  one  day 
Forgets  the  old  and  takes  the  new  to  heart, 
Forgets  what  man  remembers,  and  therewith 
Forgets  the  man.     !N"or  can  I  clearly  tell 
How  the  change  happened  between  her  and  me. 
Her  eyes  looked  on  me  from  an  emptied  heart 
When  most  my  heart  was  full  of  her  ;  and  still 
In  every  corner  of  myself  I  sought 
To  find  what  service  failed  her  ;  and  no  less 
Than  in  the  good  time  past,  there  all  was  hers. 
What   do  you  love  ?    Your   Heaven  ?     Conceive  it 

spread 

For  one  first  year  of  all  eternity 
All  round  you  with  all  joys  and  gifts  of  God  ; 
And  then  when  most  your  soul  is  blent  with  it 
And  all  yields  song  together, —  then  it  stands 
O'  the  sudden  like  a  pool  that  once  gave  back 
Your  image,  but  now  drowns  it  and  is  clear 
Again, —  or  like  a  sun  bewitched,  that  burns 
Your  shadow  from  you,  and  still  shines  in  sight. 
How  could  you  bear  it  ?     Would  you  not  cry  out, 
Among  those  eyes  grown  blind  to  you,  those  ears 
That  hear  no  more  your  voice  you  hear  the  same, — 
"  God  !  what  is  left  but  hell  for  company, 
But  hell,  hell,  hell  ?  "  —  until  the  name  so  breathed 
Whirled  with  hot  wind  and  sucked  you  down  in  fire  ? 
EVen  so  I  stood  the  day  her  empty  heart 
Left  her  place  empty  in  our  home,  while  yet 
I  knew  not  why  she  went  nor  where  she  went 
Xor  how  to  reach  her  :  so  I  stood  the  day 
When  to  my  prayers  at  last  one  sight  of  her 
Was  granted,  and  I  looked  on  heaven  made  pale 
With  scorn,  and  heard  heaven  mock  me  in  that  laugh. 

O  sweet,  long  sweet !     Was  that  some  ghost  of  you 
Even  as  your  ghost  that  haunts  me  now, —  twin  shapes 
Of  fear  and  hatred  ?     May  I  find  you  yet 
Mine  when  death  wakes  ?    Ah  !  be  it  even  in  flame, 


64  A  LAST  CONFESSION. 

We  may  have  sweetness  yet,  if  you  but  say 
As  once  in  childish  sorrow  :     "  Not  my  pain, 
My  pain  was  nothing  :  oh  your  poor  poor  love, 
Your  broken  love  !  " 

My  Father,  have  I  not 

Yet  told  you  the  last  things  of  that  last  day 
On  which  I  went  to  meet  her  by  the  sea  ? 

0  God,  O  God  !  but  I  must  tell  you  all. 

Midway  upon  my  journey,  when  I  stopped 
To  buy  the  dagger  at  the  village  fair, 

1  saw  two  cursed  rats  about  the  place 

I  knew  for  spies  —  blood-sellers  both.     That  day 

Was  not  yet  over  ;  for  three  hours  to  come 

I  prized  my  life  :  and  so  I  looked  around 

For  safety.     A  poor  painted  mountebank 

Was  playing  tricks  and  shouting  in  a  crowd. 

I  knew  he  must  have  heard  my  name,  so  I 

Pushed  past  and  whispered  to  him  who  I  was, 

And  of  my  danger.     Straight  he  hustled  me 

Into  his  booth,  as  it  were  in  the  trick, 

And  brought  me  out  next  minute  with  my  face 

All  smeared  in  patches  and  a  zany's  gown  ; 

And  there  I  handed  him  his  cups  and  balls 

And  swung  the  sand-bags  round  to  clear  the  ring 

For  half  an  hour.     The  spies  came  once  and  looked  ; 

And  while  they  stopped,  and  made  all  sights  and 

sounds 

Sharp  to  my  startled  senses,  I  remember 
A  woman  laughed  above  me.     I  looked  up 
And  saw  where  a  brown-shouldered  harlot  leaned 
Half  through  a  tavern  window  thick  with  vine. 
Some  man  had  come  behind  her  in  the  room 
And  caught  her  by  her  arms,  and  she  had  turned 
With  that  coarse  empty  laugh  on  him,  as  now 
He  munched  her  neck  with  kisses,  while  the  vine 
Crawled  in  her  back. 

And  three  hours  afterwards, 
When  she  that  I  had  run  all  risks  to  meet 


A  LAST  CONFESSION.  65 

Laughed  as  I  told  you,  my  life  burned  to  death 

Within  me,  for  I  thought  it  like  the  laugh 

Heard  at  the  fair.     She  had  not  left  me  long  ; 

But  all  she  might  have  changed  to,  or  might  change  to 

(I  know  not  since  —  she  never  speaks  a  word  — ) 

Seemed  in  that  laugh.     Have  I  not  told  you  yet, 

Not  told  you  all  this  time  what  happened,  Father, 

When  I  had  offered  her  the  little  knife, 

And  bade  her  keep  it  for  my  sake  that  loved  her, 

And  she  had  laughed  ?    Have  I  not  told  you  yet  ? 

"  Take  it,"  I  said  to  her  the  second  time, 
"  Take  it  and  keep  it."     And  then  came  a  fire 
That  burnt  my  hand  ;  and  then  the  fire  was  blood, 
And  sea  and  sky  were  blood  and  fire,  and  all 
The  day  was  one  red  blindness  ;  till  it  seemed 
Within  the  whirling  brain's  entanglement 
That  she  or  I  or  all  things  bled  to  death. 
And  then  I  found  h  r  lying  at  my  feet 
And  knew  that  I  had  stabbed  her,  and  s^iw  still 
The  look  she  gave  me  when  sh.  took  the  knife 
Deep  in  her  heart,  even  as  I  bade  her  then, 
And  fell,  and  her  stiff  bodice  scooped  the  sand 
Into  her  bosom. 

And  she  keeps  it,  see, 

Do  you  not  see  she  keeps  it  ?  —  there,  beneath 
Wet  fingers  and  wet  tresses,  in  her  heart. 
For  look  you,  when  sh>  stirs  her  hand,  it  shows 
The  little  hilt  of  horn  and  pearl, —  even  such 
A  dagger  as  our  women  of  the  coast 
Twist  in  their  garters. 

Father,  I  have  done: 

And  from  her  side  now  she  unwinds  the  thick 
Dark  hair  ;    all  round  her  side  it  is  wet  through, 
But  like  the  sand  at  Iglio  does  not  change. 
Now  you  may  see  the  dagger  clearly.     Father, 
I  have  told  all  :  tell  me  at  once  what  hope 
Can  reach  me  still.     For  now  she  draws  it  out 
5 


66  DANTE  A  T  VERONA. 

Slowly,  and  only  smiles  as  yet  :  look,  Father, 
She  scarcely  smiles  :  but  I  shall  hear  her  laugh 
Soon,  when  she  shows  the  crimson  steel  to  God. 


DANTE  AT  VERONA. 

"  Yea,  them  shalt  learn  how  salt  his  food  who  fares 

Upon  another's  bread, —  how  steep  hi>  patli 
Who  treadeth  up  and  dowu  another's  slstirs." 

(Div.  Com.  Parad.  xvii.) 
"  Behold,  even  I,  even  I  am  Beatrice." 

(Div.  Com.  Parad.  xxx. 

OF  Florence  and  of  Beatrice 
Servant  and  singer  from  of  old, 
O'er  Dante's  heart  in  youth  had  toll'd 

The  knell  that  gave  his  Lady  peace  ; 
And  now  in  manhood  flew  the  dart 
Wherewith  his  City  pierced  his  heart. 

Yet  if  his  Lady's  home  above 

Was  Heaven,  on  earth,  she  filled  his  soul ; 

And  if  his  City  held  control 
To  cast  the  body  forth  to  rove, 

The  soul  could  soar  from  earth's  vain  throng, 

And  Heaven  and  Hell  fulfill  the  gong. 

Follow  his  feet's  appointed  way  ;  — 
But  little  light  we  find  that  clears 
The  darkness  of  the  exiled  years. 

Follow  his  spirit's  journey  :  —  nay, 

What  fires  are  blent,  what  winds  are  blown 
On  paths  his  feet  may  tread  alone  ? 

Yet  of  the  twofold  life  he  led 

In  chainless  thought  and  fettered  will 
Some  glimpses  reach  us, —  somewhat  still 

Of  the  steep  stairs  and  bitter  bread  — 
Of  tie  soul's  quest  whose  stern  avow 
For  years  had  made  him  haggard  now. 


DAttTE  AT  VEKOMA.  67 

Alas  !  the  Sacred  Song  whereto 

Both  heaven  and  earth  had  set  their  hand 
Not  only  at  Fame's  gate  did  stand 

Knocking  to  claim  the  passage  through, 
But  toiled  to  ope  that  heavier  door 
"Which  Florence  shut  for  evermore. 

Shall  not  his  birth's  baptismal  Town 

One  last  high  presage  yet  fulfill, 

And  at  that  font  in  Florence  still 
His  forehead  take  the  laurel-crown  ? 

O  God  !  or  shall  dead  souls  deny 

The  undying  souls  its  prophecy  ? 

Ay,  'tis  their  hour.     Not  yet  forgot 
The  bitter  words  he  spoke  that  day 
When  for  some  great  charge  far  away 

Her  rulers  his  acceptance  sought. 

"  And  if  I  go,  who  stays  ?  " —  so  rose 
His  scorn  :  —  "  And  if  I  stay,  who  goes  ?  " 

"  Lo  !  thou  art  gone  now,  and  we  stay  :  " 
(The  curled  lips  mutter)  :  "  and  no  star 
Is  from  thy  mortal  path  so  far 

As  streets  where  childhood  knew  the  way. 
To  Heaven  and  Hell  thy  feet  may  win, 
But  thine  own  house  they  come  not  in." 

Therefore,  the  loftier  rose  the  song 
To  touch  the  secret  things  of  God, 
The  deeper  pierced  the  hate  that  trod 

On  base  men's  track  who  wrought  the  wrong, 
Till  the  soul's  effluence  came  to  be 
Its  own  exceeding  agony. 

Arriving  only  to  depart, 

From  court  to  court,  from  land  to  land, 

Like  flame  within  the  naked  hand 
His  body  bore  his  burning  heart 

That  still  on  Florence  strove  to  bring 

God's  fire  for  a  burnt  offering. 


DANTE  A  T  VERONA. 

Even  such  was  Dante's  mood,  when  now, 

Mocked  for  long  years  with  Fortune's  sport, 

He  dwelt  at  yet  another  court, 
There  where  Verona's  knee  did  bow 

And  her  voice  hailed  with  all  acclaim. 

Can  Grande  della  Scala's  name. 

As  that  lord's  kingly  guest  awhile 
His  life  we  follow  ;  through  the  days 
Which  walked  in  exile's  barren  ways, — 

The  nights  which  still  beneath  one  smile 

Heai-d  through  all  spheres  one  song  increase, — 
"  Even  I,  even. I  am  Beatrice." 

At  Can  La  Scala's  court,  no  doubt, 
Due  reverence  did  his  steps  attend  ; 
The  ushers  on  his  path  would  bend 

At  ingoing  as  at  going  out ; 
The  penmen  waited  on  his  call 
At  council-board,  the  grooms  in  hall. 

And  pages  hushed  their  laughter  down, 
And  gay  squires  stilled  the  merry  stir, 
When  he  passed  up  the  dais-chamber 

With  set  brows  lordlier  than  a  frown  ; 
And  tire-maids  hidden  among  these 
Drew  close  their  loosened  bodices. 

Perhaps  the  priests,  (exact  to  span 
All  God's  circumference,)  if  at  whiles 
They  found  him  wandering  in  their  aisles, 

Grudged  ghostly  greeting  to  the  man 
By  whom,  though  not  of  ghostly  guild, 
With  Heaven  and  Hell  men's  hearts  were  fill'd. 

And  the  court-poets  (he,  forsooth, 

A  whole  world's  poet  strayed  to  court  !) 
Had  for  his  scorn  their  hate's  retort. 

He'd  meet  them  flushed  with  easy  youth, 
Hot  on  their  errands.     Like  noon-flies 
They  vexed  him  in  his  ears  and  eyes. 


DANTE  A  T  VERONA.  I 

But  at  this  court,  peace  still  must  wrench 
Her  chaplet  from  the  teeth  of  war  : 
By  day  they  held  high  watch  afar, 

At  night  they  cried  across  the  trench  ; 
And  still,  in  Dante's  path,  the  fierce 
Gaunt  soldiers  wrangled  o'er  their  spears. 

But  vain  seemed  all  the  strength  to  him, 
As  golden  convoys  sunk  at  sea 
Whose  wealth  might  root  out  penury  : 

Because  it  was  not,  limb  with  limb, 

Knit  like  his  heart-strings  round  the  wall 
Of  Florence,  that  ill  pride  might  fall. 

Yet  in  the  tiltyard,  when  the  dust 

Cleared  from  the  sundered  press  of  knights 
Ere  yet  again  it  swoops  and  smites 

He  almost  deemed  his  longing  must 
Find  force  to  wield  that  multitude 
And  hurl  that  strength  the  way  he  would. 

How  should  he  move  them, —  fame  and  gain 

On  all  hands  calling  them  at  strife  ? 

He  still  might  find  but  his  one  life 
To  give,  by  Florence  counted  vain  ; 

One  heart  the  false  hearts  made  her  doubt  ; 

One  voice  she  heard  once  and  cast  out. 

Oh  !  if  his  Florence  could  but  come, 

A  lily-scept'red  damsel  fair, 

As  her  own  Giotto  painted  her 
On  many  shields  and  gates  at  home, — 

A  lady  crowned,  at  a  soft  pace 

Riding  the  lists  round  to  the  dais  : 

Till  where  Can  Grande  rules  the  lists, 
As  young  as  Truth,  as  calm  as  Force, 
She  draws  her  rein  now,  while  her  horse 

Bows  at  the  turn  of  the  white  wrists  ; 
And  when  each  knight  within  his  stall 
Gives  ear,  she  speaks  and  tells  them  all : 


70  DANTE  A  T  VERONA. 

All  the  foul  tale, —  truth  sworn  untrue 
And  falsehood's  triumph.     All  the  tale  ? 
Great  God  !  and  must  she  not  prevail 

To  fire  them  ere  they  heard  it  through, — 
And  hand  achieve  ere  heart  could  rest 
That  high  adventure  of  her  quest  ? 

How  would  his  Florence  lead  them  forth, 
Her  bridle  ringing  as  she  went ; 
And  at  the  last  within  her  tent, 

'Neath  golden  lilies  worship-worth, 

How  queenly  would  she  bend  the  while 
And  thank  the  victors  with  her  smile  ! 

Also  her  lips  should  turn  his  way 

And  murmur  :  "  O  thou  tried  and  true, 
With  whom  I  wept  the  long  years  through  ! 

What  shall  it  profit  if  I  say, 

Thee  I  remember  ?     Nay,  through  thee 
All  ages  shall  remember  me." 

Peace,  Dante,  peace  !     The  task  is  long, 
The  time  wears  short  to  compass  it. 
Within  thine  heart  such  hopes  may  flit 

And  find  a  voice  in  deathless  song  : 
But  lo  !  as  children  of  man's  earth, 
Those  hopes  are  dead  before  their  birth. 

Fame  tells  us  that  Verona's  court 

Was  a  fair  place.     The  feet  might  still 
Wander  for  ever  at  their  will 

In  many  ways  of  sweet  resort ; 
And  still  in  many  a  heart  around 
The  Poet's  name  due  honor  found. 

Watch  we  his  steps.     He  comes  upon 
The  women  at  their  palm-playing. 
The  conduits  round  the  gardens  sing 

And  meet  in  scoops  of  milk-white  stone, 
Where  wearied  damsels  rest  and  hold 
Their  hands  in  the  wet  spurt  of  gold. 


DAXTE  A  T  VERONA.  71 

One  of  whom,  knowing  well  that  he, 

By  some  found  stern,  was  mild  with  them, 
Would  run  and  pluck  his  garment's  hem, 

Saying,  "Messer  Dante,  pardon  me,"  — 
Praying  "that  they  might  hear  the  song 
Which  first  of  all  he  made,  when  young. 

"  Donne  che  arete  "  *  .  .  .  Thereunto 
Thus  would  he  murmur,  having  first 
Drawn  near  the  fountain,  while  she  nurs'd 

His  hand  against  her  side  :  a  few 

Sweet  words,  and  scarcely  those,  Lalf  said  : 
Then  turned,  and  changed,  and  bowed  his  head. 

For  then  the  voice  said  in  his  heart, 
"  Even  I,  even  I  am  Beatrice  ; " 
And  his  whole  life  would  yearn  to  cease 

Till  having  reached  his  room,  apart 
Beyond  vast  lengths  of  palace-floor, 
He  drew  the  arras  round  his  door. 

At  such  times,  Dante,  thou  hast  set 
Thy  forehead  to  the  painted  pane 
Full  oft,  I  know  ;  and  if  the  rain 

Smote  it  outside,  her  fingers  met 

Thy  brow  ;  and  if  the  sun  fell  there, 
Her  breath  was  on  thy  face  and  hair. 

Then,  weeping,  I  think  certainly 

Thou  hast  beheld,  past  sight  of  eyne, — 

Within  another  room  of  thine 
Where  now  thy  body  may  not  be 

But  where  in  thought  thou  still  remain'st, — 

A  window  often  wept  against : 

The  window  thou,  a  youth,  hast  sought, 
Flushed  in  the  limpid  eventime, 
Ending  with  daylight  the  day's  rhyme 

*"  Donne  che  avete  intelletto  d'amore:"  —  the  first  can- 
zone of  the  "  Vita  INuova." 


DANTE  A  T  VERONA. 

Of  her  ;  where  oftenwhiles  her  thought 

Held  thee —  the  lamp  untrimmed  to  write  — 
In  joy  through  the  blue  lapse  of  night. 

At  Can  La  Scala's  court,  no  doubt, 

Guests  seldom  wept.     It  was  brave  sport, 
No  doubt,  at  Can  La  Scala's  court, 

Within  the  palace  and  without ; 
Where  music,  set  to  madrigals, 
Loitered  all  day  through  groves  and  halls. 

Because  Can  Grande  of  his  life 
Had  not  had  six-and-twenty  years 
As  yet.     And  when  the  chroniclers 

Tell  you  of  that  Vicenza  strife 

And  of  strifes  elsewhere, —  you  must  not 
Conceive  for  chucch-sooth  he  had  got 

Just  nothing  in  his  wits  but  war  : 

Though  doubtless  't  was  the  young  man's  joy 
(Grown  with  his  growth  from  a  mere  boy,) 

To  mark  his  "  Viva  Cane  !  "  scare 
The  foe's  shut  front,  till  it  would  reel 
All  blind  with  shaken  points  of  steel. 

But  there  were  places  —  held  too  sweet 

For  eyes  that  had  not  the  due  veil 

Of  lashes  and  clear  lids  —  as  well 
In  favor  as  his  saddle-seat  : 

Breath  of  low  speech  he  scorned  not  there 

Nor  light  cool  fingers  in  his  hair. 

Yet  if  the  child  whom  the  sire's  plan 
Made  free  of  a  deep  treasure-chest 
Scoffed  it  with  ill-conditioned  jest, — 

We  may  be  sure  too  that  the  man 
Was  not  mere  thews,  nor  all  content 
With  lewdness  swnthed  in  sentiment. 

So  you  may  read  and  marvel  not 
That  such  a  man  as  Dante  —  one 


DANTE  A  T  VERONA.  73 

Who,  while  Can  Grande's  deeds  were  done, 
Had  drawn  his  robe  round  him  and  thought  — 
Now  at  the  same  guest-table  far'd 
Where  keen  Uguccio  wiped  his  beard.* 

Through  leaves  and  trellis-work  the  sun 
Left  the  wine  cool  within  the  glass, — 
They  feasting  where  no  sun  could  pass  : 

And  when  the  women,  all  as  one, 

Rose  up  with  brightened  cheeks  to  go, 
It  was  a  comely  thing,  we  know. 

But  Dante  recked  not  of  the  wine  ; 

Whether  the  women  stayed  or  went, 

His  visage  held  one  stern  intent : 
And  when  the  music  had  its  sign 

To  breathe  upon  them  for  more  ease, 

Sometimes  he  turned  and  bade  it  cease. 

And  as  he  spared  not  to  rebuke 

The  mirth,  so  oft  in  council  he 

To  bitter  truth  bore  testimony: 
And  when  the  crafty  balance  shook 

Well  poised  to  make  the  wrong  prevail, 

Then  Dante's  hand  would  turn  the  scale. 

And  if  some  envoy  from  afar 
Sailed  to  Verona's  sovereign  port 
For  aid  or  peace,  and  all  the  court 

Fawned  on  its  lord,  "  the  Mars  of  war, 
Sole  arbiter  of  life  and  death,"  — 
Be  sure  that  Dante  saved  his  breath. 

And  Can  La  Scala  marked  askance 

These  things,  accepting  them  for  shame 
And  scorn,  till  Dante's  guestship  came 

To  be  a  peevish  sufferance  : 

His  host  sought  ways  to  make  his  days 
Hateful  ;  and  such  have  many  ways. 

*  Uguccione  della  Faggiuola,  Dante's  former  protector,  was 
now  his  fellow-guest  at  Verona. 


74  DANTE  A  T  VERONA. 

There  was  a  Jester,  a  foul  lout 

Whom  the  court  loved  for  graceless  arts  ; 

Sworn  scholiast  of  the  bestial  parts 
Of  speech  ;  a  ribald  mouth  to  shout 

In  Folly's  horny  tympanum 

Such  things  as  make  the  wise  man  dumb. 

Much  loved,  him  Dante  loathed.     And  so, 
One  day  when  Dante  felt  perplex'd 
If  any  day  that  could  come  next 

Were  worth  the  waiting  for  or  no, 
And  mute  he  sat  amid  their  din, — 
Can  Grande  called  the  Jester  in. 


Rank  words,  with  such,  are  wit's  best  wealth. 
Lords  mouthed  approval ;  ladies  kept 
Twittering  with  clustered  heads,  except 

Some  few  that  took  their  trains  by  stealth 
And  went.  Can  Grande  shook  his  hair 
And  smote  his  thighs  and  laughed  i'  the  air. 

Then,  facing  on  his  guest,  he  cried, — 

"  Say,  Messer  Dante,  how  it  is 

I  get  out  of  a  clown  like  this 
More  than  your  wisdom  can  provide." 

And  Dante  :  "  'Tis  man's  ancient  whim 

That  still  his  like  seems  good  to  him." 

Also  a  tale  is  told,  how  once, 

At  clearing  tables  after  meat, 

Piled  for  a  jest  at  Dante's  feet 
Were  found  the  dinner's  well-picked  bones  ; 

So  laid,  to  please  the  banquet's  lord, 

By  one  who  crouched  beneath  the  board. 

Then  smiled  Can  Grande  to  the  rest  :  — 
"  Our  Dante's  tuneful  mouth  indeed 
Lacks  not  the  gift  of  flesh  to  feed  \  " 


DANTE  A  T  VERONA.  75 

"Fair  host  of  mine,"  Replied  the  guest, 

"  So  many  bones  you'd  not  descry 
If  so  it  chanced  the  dog  vrere  I.  "  * 

But  wherefore  should  we  turn  the  grout 

In  a  drained  cup,  or  be  at  strife 

From  the  worn  garment  of  a  life 
To  rip  the  twisted  ravel  out  ? 

Good  needs  expounding  ;  but  of  ill 

Each  hath  enough  to  guess  his  fill. 

They  named  him  Justicer-at-Law  : 
Each  month  to  bear  the  tale  in  mind 
Of  hues  a  wench  might  wear  unfin'd 

And  of  the  load  an  ox  might  draw  ; 
To  cavil  in  the  weight  of  bread 
And  to  see  purse-thieves  gibbeted. 

And  when  his  spirit  wove  the  spell 

(From  under  even  to  over-noon 

In  converse  with  itself  alone,) 
As  high  as  Heaven,  as  low  as  Hell, — 

He  would  be  summoned  and  must  go  : 

For  had  not  Gian  stabbed  Giacomo  ? 

Therefore  the  bread  he  had  to  eat 

Seemed  brackish,  less  like  corn  than  tares  ; 
And  the  rush-strown  accustomed  stairs 

Each  day  were  steeper  to  his  feet  ; 
And  when  the  night-vigil  was  done, 
His  brows  would  ache  to  feel  the  sun. 

Nevertheless,  when  from  his  kin 
There  came  the  tidings  how  at  last 
In  Florence  a  decree  was  pass'd 

Whereby  all  banished  folk  might  win 
Free  pardon,  so  a  fine  were  paid 
An  act  of  public  penance  made, — 

*  "  Messere,  voinon  redreste  tanf  ossa  se  cane  io  fossi."  The 
point  of  the  reproach  is  difficult  to  render,  depending  as  it  does 
on  the  literal  meaning  of  the  name  Cane. 


76  DANTE  A  T  VERONA. 

This  Dante  writ  in  answer  thus, 

"Words  such  as  these  :  "  That  clearly  they 
In  Florence  must  not  have  to  say:  — 

The  man  abode  aloof  from  us 

Nigh  fifteen  years,  yet  lastly  skulk'd 
Hither  to  candleshrift  and  mulct. 


"  That  he  was  one  the  Heavens  forbid 
To  traffic  in  God's  justice  sold 
By  market-weight  of  earthly  gold, 

Or  to  bow  down  over  the  lid 
Of  steaming  censers,  and  so  be 
Made  clean  of  manhood's  obloquy. 

"  That  since  no  gate  led,  by  God's  will, 
To  Florence,  but  the  one  whereat 
The  priests  and  money-changers  sat, 

He  still  would  wander  ;  for  that  still, 
Even  through  the  body's  prison-bars, 
His  soul  possessed  the  sun  and  stars." 

Such  were  his  words.  It  is  indeed 
For  ever  well  our  singers  should 
Utter  good  words  and  know  them  good 

Not  through  song  only  ;  with  close  heed 
Lest,  having  spent  for  the  work's  sake 
Six  days,  the  man  be  left  to  make. 

Months  o'er  Verona,  till  the  feast 

Was  come  for  Florence  the  Free  Town : 

And  at  the  shrine  of  Baptist  John 
The  exiles,  girt  with  many  a  priest 
And  carrying  candles  as  they  went, 
Were  held  to  mercy  of  the  saint. 

On  the  high  seats  in  sober  state, — 

Gold  neck-chains  range  o'er  range  below 
Gold  screen-work  where  the  lilies  grow, — 


DANTE  A  T  VERONA. 

The  Heads  of  the  Republic  sate, 
Marking  the  humbled  face  go  by 
Each  one  of  his  house-enemy. 

And  as  each  prescript  rose  and  stood 
From  kneeling  in  the  ashen  dust 
On  the  shrine-steps,  some  magnate  thrust 

A  beard  into  the  velvet  hood 

Of  his  front  colleague's  gown,  to  see 
The  cinders  stuck  in  the  bare  knee. 


Tosinghi  passed,  Manelli  passed, 
Rinucci  passed,  each  in  his  place 
But  not  an  Alighieri's  face 

Went  by  that  day  from  first  to  last 
In  the  Republic's  triumph  ;  nor 
A  foot  came  home  to  Dante's  door. 

(RESPUBLICA  —  a  public  thing  : 
A  shameful  shameless  prostitute, 
Whose  lust  with  one  lord  may  not  suit, 

So  takes  by  turns  its  reveling 

A  night  with  each,  till  he  at  morn 
Is  stripped  and  beaten  forth  forlorn, 

And  leaves  her,  cursing  her.     If  she, 

Indeed,  have  not  some  spice-draught,  hid 
In  scent  under  a  silver  lid, 

To  drench  his  open  throat  with  —  he 
Once  hard  asleep  ;  and  thrust  him  not 
At  dawn  beneath  the  boards  to  rot. 

Such  this  Republic  !  —  not  the  Maid 

He  yearned  for  ;  she  who  yet  should  stand 
With  Heaven's  accepted  hand  in  hand, 

Invulnerable  and  unbetray'd  : 

To  whom,  even  as  to  God,  should  be 
Obeisance  one  with  Liberty.) 


78  DANTE  A  T  VERONA. 

Years  filled  out  their  twelve   moons,  and  ceased 

One  in  another  ;  and  alway 

There  were  the  whole  twelve  hours  each  day 
And  each  night  as  the  years  increased  ; 

And  rising  moon  and  setting  sun 

Beheld  that  Dante's  work  was  done. 

What  of  his  work  for  Florence  ?     Well 
It  was,  he  knew,  and  well  must  be. 
Yet  evermore  her  hate's  decree 

Dwelt  in  his  thought  intolerable  :  — 
His  body  to  be  burned,*  —  his  soul 
To  beat  its  wings  at  hope's  vain  goal. 

What  of  his  work  for  Beatrice  ? 

Now  well-nigh  was  the  third  song  writ, — 

The  stars  a  third  time  sealing  it 
With  sudden  music  of  pure  peace  : 

For  echoing  thrice  the  threefold  song, 

The  unnumbered  stars  the  tone  prolong,  f 

Each  hour,  as  then  the  Vision  pass'd, 

He  heard  the  utter  harmony 

Of  the  nine  trembling  spheres,  till  she 
Bowed  her  eyes  towards  him  in  the  last, 

So  that  all  ended  with  her  eyes, 

Hell,  Purgatory,  Paradise. 

"  It  is  my  trust,  as  the  years  fall, 
To  write  more  worthily  of  her 
Who  now,  being  made  God's  minister, 

Looks  on  His  visage  and  knows  all." 
Such  was  the  hope  that  love  did  blend 
With  grief's  slow  fires,  to  make  an  end 


*  Such   was  the  last  sentence  passed  by  Florence  airaiust 
Dante,  as  a  recalcitrant  exile. 

\  "  E  quindi  uscimmo  a  rivedee  le  ste'le."    INFERNO. 

"  Puro  e  disposto  a  salire  alle  stelle."    PUKGATOKIO. 

"  L'anior  cue  muove  il  sole  e  1'altre  stelle."    PARADISO. 


DANTE  AT  VERONA.  79 

Of  the  "  New  Life,"  his  youth's  dear  book  : 
Adding  thereunto  :  "  In  such  trust 
I  labor,  and  believe  I  must 

Accomplish  this  Avhich  my  soul  took 
In  charge,  if  God,  my  Lord  and  hers, 
Leave  my  life  with  me  a  few  years." 

The  trust  which  he  had  borne  in  youth 
Was  all  at  length  accomplished.  He 
At  length  had  written  worthily  — 

Yea  even  of  her  ;  no  rhymes  uncouth 

'Twixt  tongue  and  tongue  ;  but  by  God's  aid 
The  first  words  Italy  had  said. 

Ah  !  haply  now  the  heavenly  guide 
Was  not  the  last  form  seen  by  him  : 
But  there  that  Beatrice  stood  slim 

And  bowed  in  passing  at  his  side, 

For  whom  in  youth  his  heart  made  moan 
Then  when  the  city  sat  alone.* 

Clearly  herself  ;  the  same  whom  he 
Met,  not  past  girlhood,  in  the  street, 
Low-bosomed  and  with  hidden  feet  ; 

And  then  as  woman  perfectly, 

In  years  that  followed,  many  an  once, — 
And  now  at  last  among  the  suns  " 

In  that  high  vision.     But  indeed 

It  may  be  memory  did  recall 

Last  to  him  then  the  first  of  all, — 
The  child  his  boyhood  bore  in  heed 

Nine  years.  At  length  the  voice  brought  peace, — 

"  Even  I,  even  I  am  Beatrice." 

All  this,  being  there,  we  had  not  seen. 
Seen  only  was  the  shadow  wrought 
On  the  strong  features  bound  in  thought  ; 

*  "  Qwnodo  sedet  sola  chitas  !  " — the  words  qurted  by 
Dante  in  the  •'  Vita  Nuova  "  when  lie  speaks  of  the  death  of 
Beatrice. 


60  DANTE  A  r  VERONA. 

The  vagueness  gaining  gait  and  mien  ; 
The  white  streaks  gathering  clear  to  view 
In  the  burnt  beard  the  women  knew. 

For  a  tale  tells  that  on  his  track, 

As  through  Verona's  streets  he  went, 
This  saying  certain  women  sent : — 

"  Lo,  he  that  strolls  to  Hell  and  back 
At  will !     Behold  him,  how  Hell's  reek 
Has  crisped  his  beard  and  singed  his  cheek." 

"  Whereat "  (Boccaccio's  words)  "  he  smil'd 
For  pride  in  fame."     It  might  be  so  : 
Nevertheless  we  cannot  know 

If  haply  he  were  not  beguil'd 

To  bitterer  mirth,  who  scarce  could  tell 
If  he  indeed  were  back  from  Hell. 


So  the  day  came,  after  a  space, 

When  Dante  felt  assured  that  there 
The  sunshine  must  lie  sicklier 

Even  than  in  any  other  place, 

Save  only  Florence.     When  that  day 
Had  cpme,  he  rose  and  went  his  way. 

He  went  and  turned  not.     From  his  shoes 
It  may  be  that  he  shook  the  dust, 
As  every  righteous  dealer  must 

Once  and  again  ere  life  can  close  : 
And  unaccomplished  destiny 
Struck  cold  his  forehead,  it  may  be. 

No  book  keeps  record  how  the  Prince 
Sunned  himself  out  of  Dante's  reach, 
Nor  how  the  Jester  stank  in  speech  ; 

While  courtiers,  used  to  smile  and  wince, 
Poets  and  harlots,  all  the  throng, 
Let  loose  their  scandal  and  their  song. 


JENNY.  81 

No  book  keeps  record  if  the  seat 

Which  Dante  held  at  his  host's  board 
Were  sat  in  next  by  clerk  or  lord, — 

If  leman  lolled  with  dainty  feet 
At  ease,  or  hostage  brooded  there, 
Or  priest  lacked  silence  for  his  prayer. 

Eat  and  wash  hands,  Can  Grande  ;  —  scarce 
We  know  their  deeds  now  :  hands  which  fed 
Our  Dante  with  that  bitter  bread  ; 

And  thou  the  watch-dog  of  those  stairs 
Which,  of  all  paths  his  feet  knew  well, 
Were  steeper  found  than  Heaven  or  Hell. 


JENNY. 

"  Vengeance  of  Jenny's  case  !     Fie  on  her  !    Never  name  her, 
child  !  "  —  (Mrs.  Quickly.) 

LAZY  laughing  languid  Jenny, 

Fond  of  a  kiss  and  fond  of  a  guinea, 

Whose  head  upon  my  knee  to-night 

Rests  for  a  while,  as  if  grown  light 

With  all  our  dances  and  the  sound 

To  which  the  wild  tunes  spun  you  round  ; 

Fair  Jenny  mine,  the  thoughtless  queen 

Of  kisses  which  the  blush  between 

Could  hardly  make  much  daintier  ; 

Whose  eyes  are  as  blue  skies,  whose  hair 

Is  countless  gold  incomparable  : 

Fresh  flower,  scarce  touched  with  signs  that  tell 

Of  Love's  exuberant  hotbed  :  —  Nay, 

Poor  flower  left  torn  since  yesterday 

Until  to-morrow  leave  you  bare  ; 

Poor  handful  of  bright  spring-water 

Flung  in  the  whirlpool's  shrieking  face  ; 


JENNV. 

Poor  shameful  Jenny,  full  of  grace 
Thus  with  your  head  upon  my  knee  ;  — 
Whose  person  or  whose  purse  may  be 
The  loadstar  of  your  reverie  ? 

This  room  of  yours,  my  Jenny,  looks 
A  c-hange  from  mine  so  full  of  books, 
Whose  serried  ranks  hold  fast,  forsooth, 
So  many  captive  hours  of  youth, — 
The  hours  they  thieve  from  day  and  night 
To  make  one's  cherished  work  come  right, 
And  leave  it  wrong  for  all  their  theft, 
Even  as  to-night  my  work  was  left  : 
Until  I  vowed  that  since  my  brain 
And  eyes  of  dancing  seemed  so  fain, 
My  feet  should  have  some  dancing  too  :  — 
And  thus  it  was  I  met  with  you. 
Well,  I  suppose  'twas  hard  to  part, 
For  here  I  am.     And  now,  sweetheart, 
You  seem  too  tired  to  get  to  bed. 

It  was  a  careless  life  I  led 
When  rooms  like  this  were  scarce  so  strange, 
Not  long  ago.     What  breeds  the  change, — 
The  many  aims  or  the  few  years  ? 
Because  to-night  it  all  appears 
Something  I  do  not  know  again. 

The  cloud's  not  danced  out  of  my  brain, — 
The  cloud  that  made  it  turn  and  swim 
While  hour  by  hour  the  books  grew  dim. 
Why,  Jenny,  as  I  watch  you  there, — 
For  all  your  wealth  of  loosened  hair, 
Your  silk  ungirdled  and  unlac'd 
And  warm  sweets  open  to  the  waist, 
All  golden  in  the  lamplight's  gleam, — 
You  know  not  what  a  book  you  seem, 
Half-read  by  lightning  in  a  dream  ! 
How  should  you  know,  my  Jenny  ?     Nay, 


JENNY. 

And  I  should  be  ashamed  to  say  :  — 
Poor  beauty,  so  well  worth  a  kiss  ! 
But  while  my  thought  runs  on  like  this 
"With  wasteful  whims  more  than  enough, 
I  wonder  what  you're  thinking  of. 

If  of  myself  you  think  at  all, 
What  is  the  thought  ?  —  conjectural 
On  sorry  matters  best  unsolved?  — 
Or  inly  is  each  grace  revolved 
To  fit  me  with  a  lure  ?  —  or  (sad 
To  think  !)  pei-haps  you're  merely  glad 
That  I'm  not  drunk  or  ruffianly 
And  let  you  rest  upon  my  knee. 

For  sometimes,  were  the  truth  confess'd, 
You're  thankful  for  a  little  rest, — 
Glad  from  the  crush  to  rest  within, 
From  the  heart-sickness  and  the  din 
Where  envy's  voice  at  virtue's  pitch 
Mocks  you  because  your  gown  is  rich  ; 
And  from  the  pale  girl's  dumb  rebuke, 
Whose  ill-clad  grace  and  toil-worn  look 
Proclaim  the  strength  that  keeps  her  weak 
And  other  nights  than  yours  bespeak  ; 
And  from  the  wise  unchildish  elf, 
To  schoolmate  lesser  than  himself, 
Pointing  you  out,  what  thing  you  are  :  — 
Yes,  from  the  daily  jeer  and  jar, 
From  shame  and  shame's  outbraving  too, 
Is  rest  not  sometimes  sweet  to  you? — 
But  most  from  the  hatefulness  of  man 
Who  spares  not  to  end  what  he  began, 
Whose  acts  are  ill  and  his  speech  ill, 
Who,  having  used  you  at  his  will, 
Thrusts  you  aside,  as  when  I  dine 
I  serve  the  dishes  and  the  wine. 

Well,  handsome  Jenny  mine,  sit  up, 
I've  filled  our  glasses,  let  us  sup, 


84 


And  do  not  let  me  think  of  you, 
Lest  shame  of  yours  suffice  for  two. 
What,  still  so  tired  ?     Well,  well  then  keep 
Your  head  there,  so  you  do  not  sleep  ; 
But  that  the  weariness  may  pass 
And  leave  you  merry,  take  this  glass. 
Ah  !  lazy  lily  hand,  more  bless'd 
If  ne'er  in  rings  it  had  been  dress'd 
Nor  ever  by  a  glove  conceal'd  ! 

Behold  the  lilies  of  the  field, 
They  toil  not  neither  do  they  spin  ; 
(So  doth  the  ancient  text  begin,  — 
Not  of  such  rest  as  one  of  these 
Can  share.)     Another  rest  and  ease 
Along  each  summer-sated  path 
From  its  new  lord  the  garden  hath, 
Than  that  whose  spring  in  blessings  ran 
Which  praised  the  bounteous  husbandman, 
Ere  yet,  in  days  of  hankering  breath, 
The  lilies  sickened  unto  death. 

What,  Jenny,  are  your  lilies  dead  ? 
Ay,  and  the  snow-white  leaves  are  spread 
Like  winter  on  thq  garden-bed. 
But  you  had  roses  left  in  May,  — 
They  were  not  gone  too.     Jenny,  nay, 
But  must  your  roses  die,  and  those 
Their  purfled  buds  that  should  unclose  ? 
Even  so  ;  the  leaves  are  curled  apart, 
Still  red  as  from  the  broken  heart, 
And  here's  the  naked  stem  of  thorns. 

Nay,  nay,  mere  words.     Here  nothing  warns 
As  yet  of  winter.     Sickness  here 
Or  want  alone  could  waken  fear,  — 
Nothing  but  passion  wrings  a  tear. 
Except  when  there  may  rise  unsought 
Haply  at  times  a  passing  thought 
Of  the  old  days  which  seem  to  be 


JE.\\YY.  85 

Much  older  than  any  history 

That  is  written  in  any  book  ; 

When  she  would  lie  in  fields  and  look 

Along  the  ground  through  the  blown  grass, 

And  wonder  where  the  city  was. 

Far  out  of  sight,  whose  broil  and  bale. 

They  told  her  then  for  a  child's  tale. 

Jenny,  you  know  the  city  now. 
A  child  can  tell  the  tale  there,  how 
Some  things  which  are  not  yet  enroll'd 
In  market-lists  are  bought  and  sold 
Even  till  the  early  Sunday  light, 
When  Saturday  night  is  market-night 
Everywhere,  be  it  dry  or  wet, 
And  market-night  in  the  Haymarket. 
Our  learned  London  children  know, 
Poor  Jenny,  all  your  pride  and  \voe  ; 
Have  seen  your  lifted  silken  skirt 
Advertise  dainties  through  the  dirt ; 
Have  seen  your  coach-wheels  splash  rebuke 
On  virtue  ;  and  have  learned  your  look 
When,  wealth  and  health  slipped  past,  you  stare 
Along  the  sti'eets  alone,  and  there, 
Round  the  long  park,  across  the  bridge, 
The  cold  lamps  at  the  pavement's  edge 
Wind  on  together  and  apart, 
A  fiery  serpent  for  your  heart. 

Let  the  thoughts  pass,  an  empty  cloud  ! 
Suppose  I  were  to  think  aloud, — 
What  if  to  her  all  this  were  said? 
Why,  as  a  volume  seldom  read 
Being  opened  halfway  shuts  again, 
So  might  the  pages  of  her  brain 
Be  parted  at  such  words,  and  thence 
Close  back  upon  the  dusty  sense. 
For  is  there  hue  or  shape  defin'd 
In  Jenny's  desecrated  mind, 
Where  all  contagious  currents  meet, 


86  JENNY. 

A  Lethe  of  the  middle  street  ? 
Nay,  it  reflects  not  any  face, 
Nor  sound  is  in  its  sluggish  pace, 
But  as  they  coil  those  eddies  clot, 
And  night  and  day  remember  not. 

Why,  Jenny,  you're  asleep  at  last !  — 
Asleep,  poor  Jenny,  hard  and  fast, — 
So  young  and  soft  and  tired  ;  so  fair, 
With  chin  thus  nestled  in  your  hair, 
Mouth  quiet,  eyelids  almost  blue 
As  if  some  sky  of  dreams  shone  through  ! 

Just  as  another  woman  sleeps  ! 
Enough  to  throw  one's  thoughts  in  heaps 
Of  doubt  and  horror, —  what  to  say 
Or  think, —  this  awful  secret  sway, 
The  potter's  power  over  the  clay  ! 
Of  the  same  lump  (it  has  been  said) 
For  honor  and  dishonor  made, 
Two  sister  vessels.     Here  is  one. 

My  cousin  Nell  is  fond  of  fun, 
And  fond  of  dress,  and  change,  and  praise, 
So  mere  a  woman  in  her  ways  : 
And  if  her  sweet  eyes  rich  in  youth 
Are  like  her  lips  that  tell  the  truth, 
My  cousin  Nell  is  fond  of  love. 
And  she's  the  girl  I'm  proudest  of. 
Who  does  not  prize  her,  guard  her  well  ? 
The  love  of  changefin  cousin  Nell, 
Shall  find  the  best  and  hold  it  dear 
The  unconquered  mirth  turn  quieter 
Not  through  her  own,  through  others'  woe 
The  conscious  pride  of  beauty  glow 
Beside  another's  pride  in  her, 
One  little  part  of  all  they  share. 
For  Love  himself  shall  ripen  these 
In  a  kind  soil  to  just  increase 
Through  years  of  fertilizing  peace. 


JENNY.  87 

Of  the  same  lump  (as  it  is  said) 
For  honor  and  dishonor  made, 
Two  sister  vessels.     Here  is  one. 

It  makes  a  goblin  of  the  sun. 

So  pure, —  so  fall'n  !     How  dare  to  think 
Of  the  first  common  kindred  link  ? 
Yet,  Jenny,  till  the  world  shall  burn 
It  seems  that  all  things  take  their  turn  ; 
And  who  shall  say  but  this  fair  tree 
May  need,  in  changes  that  may  be, 
Your  children's  children's  charity  ? 
Scorned  then,  no  doubt,  as  you  are  scorn'd  ! 
Shall  no  man  hold  his  pride  f  orewarn'd 
Till  in  the  end,  the  Day  of  Days, 
At  judgment,  one  of  his  own  race, 
As  frail  and  lost  as  you,  shall  rise, — 
His  daughter,  with  his  mother's  eyes  ? 

How  Jenny's  clock  ticks  on  the  shelf  ! 
Might  not  the  dial  scorn  itself 
That  has  such  hours  to  register  ? 
Yet  as  to  me,  even  so  to  her 
Are  golden  sun  and  silver  moon, 
In  daily  largess  of  earth's  boon, 
Counted  for  life-coins  to  one  tune. 
And  if,  as  blindfold  fates  are  toss'd, 
Through  some  one  man  this  life  be  lost, 
Shall  soul -not  somehow  pay  for  soul? 

Fair  shines  the  gilded  aureole 
In  which  our  highest  painters  place 
Some  living  woman's  simple  face. 
And  the  stilled  features  thus  descried 
As  Jenny's  long  throat  droops  aside, — 
The  shadows  where  the  cheeks  are  thin, 
And  pure  wide  curve  from  ear  to  chin, — 
With  Raphael's,  Leonardo's  hand 
To  show  them  to  men's  souls,  might  stand, 


JENNY. 

Whole  ages  long,  the  whole  world  through, 
For  preachings  of  what  God  can  do. 
What  has  man  done  here  ?     How  atone, 
Great  God,  for  this  which  man  has  done  ? 
And.  for  the  body  and  soul  which  by 
Man's  pitiless  doom  must  now  comply 
With  lifelong  hell,  what  lullaby 
Of  sweet  forgetful  second  birth 
Remains  ?     All  dark.     No  sign  on  earth 
What  measure  of  God's  rest  endows 
The  many  mansions  of  his  house. 


If  but  a  woman's  heart  might  see 
Such  erring  heart  unerringly 
For  once  !  But  that  can  never  be. 


Like  a  rose  shut  in  a  book 
In  which  pure  women  may  not  look, 
Nor  its  base  pages  claim  control 
To  crush  the  flower  within  the  soul  ; 
Where  through  each  dead  rose-leaf  that  clings, 
Pale  as  transparent  psyche- wings, 
To  the  vile  text,  are  traced  sucli  things 
As  might  make  lady's  cheek  indeed 
More  than  a  living  rose  to  read  ; 
So  naught  save  foolish  foulness  may 
Watch  with  hard  eyes  the  sure  decay  ; 
And  so  the  life  blood  of  this  rose, 
Puddled  with  shameful  knowledge,  flows 
Through  leaves  no  chaste  hand  may  unclose  ; 
Yet  still  it  keeps  such  faded  show 
Of  when  'twas  gathered  long  ago, 
That  the  crushed  petals'  lovely  grain, 
The  sweetness  of  the  sanguine  stain, 
Seen  of  a  woman's  eyes,  must  make 
Her  pitiful  heart,  so  prone  to  ache, 
Love  roses  better  for  its  sake  :  — 
Only  that  this  can  never  be  :  — 
Even  so  unto  her  sex  is  she, 


JENNY.  I 

Yet,  Jenny,  looking  long  at  you, 
The  woman  almost  fades  from  view. 
A  cipher  of  man's  changeless  sum 
Of  lust,  past,  present,  and  to  come, 
Is  left.     A  riddle  that  one  shrinks 
To  challenge  from  the  scornful  sphinx. 

Like  a  toad  within  a  stone 
Seated  while  Time  crumbles  on  ; 
Which  sits  there  since  the  earth  was  curs'd 
For  Man's  transgression  at  the  first ; 
Which,  living  through  all  centuries, 
Not  once  has  seen  the  sun  arise  ; 
Whose  life,  to  its  cold  circle  charmed, 
The  earth's  whole  summers  have  not  warmed  ; 
Whiclralways  —  whitherso  the  stone 
Be  flung  —  sits  there,  deaf,  blind,  alone  ;  — 
Ay,  and  shall  not  be  driven  out 
Till  that  which  shuts  him  round  about 
Break  at  the  very  Master's  stroke, 
And  the  dust  thereof  vanish  as  smoke, 
And  the  seed  of  Man  vanish  as  dust  :  — 
Even  so  within  this  world  is  Lust. 

Come,  come,  what  use  in  thoughts  like  this? 
Poor  little  Jenny,  good  to  kiss, — 
You'd  not  believe  by  what  strange  roads 
Thought  travels,  when  your  beauty  goads 
A  man  to-night  to  think  of  toads  ! 
Jenny,  wake  up.  .  .  .  Why,  there's  the  dawn  ! 

And  there's  an  early  wagon  drawn 
To  market,  and  some  sheep  that  jog 
Bleating  before  a  barking  dog  ; 
And  the  old  streets  come  peering  through 
Another  night  that  London  knew  ; 
And  all  as  ghostlike  as  the  lamps. 

So  on  the  wings  of  day  decamps 
My  last  night's  frolic.     Glooms  begin 
To  shiver  off  as  lights  creep  in 


90  JENNY. 

Past  the  gauze  curtains  half  drawn-to 

And  the  lamp's  doubled  shade  grows  blue, — 

Your  lamp,  my  Jenny,  kept  alight, 

Like  a  wise  virgin's,  all  one  night ! 

And  in  the  alcove  coolly  spread 

Glimmers  with  dawn  your  empty  bed  ; 

And  yonder  your  fair  face  I  see 

Reflected  lying  on  my  knee, 

Where  teems  with  first  foreshadowings 

Your  pier-glass  scrawled  with  diamond  rings  : 

And  on  your  bosom  all  night  worn 

Yesterday's  rose  now  droops  forlorn 

But  dies  not  yet  this  summer  morn. 

And  now  without,  as  if  some  word 
Had  called  upon  them  that  they  heard, 
The  London  sparrows  far  and  nigh 
Clamor  together  suddenly  ; 
And  Jenny's  cage-bird  grown  awake 
Here  in  their  song  his  part  must  take, 
Because  here  too  the  day  doth  break. 

And  somehow  in  myself  the  dawn 
Among  stirred  clouds  and  veils  withdrawn 
Strikes  grayly  on  her.     Let  her  sleep. 
But  will  it  wake  her  if  I  heap 
These  cushions  thus  beneath  her  head 
Where  my  knee  was  ?     No, —  there's  your  bed, 
My  Jenny,  while  you  dream.     And  there 
I  lay  among  your  golden  hair 
Perhaps  the  subject  of  your  dreams, 
These  golden  coins. 

For  still  one  deems 
That  Jenny's  flattering  sleep  confers 
New  magic  on  the  magic  purse, — 
Grim  web,  how  clogged  with  shriveled  flies  ! 
Between  the  threads  fine  fumes  arise 
And  shape  their  pictures  in  the  brain. 
There  roll  no  streets  in  glare  and  rain, 


JEXNY.  91 

Nor  flagrant  man-swine  whets  his  tusk  ; 

But  delicately  sighs  in  musk 

The  homage  of  the  dim  boudoir  ; 

Or  like  a  palpitating  star 

Thrilled  into  song,  the  opera-night 

Breathes  faint  in  the  quick  pulse  of  light  ; 

Or  at  the  carriage-window  shine 

Rich  wares  for  choice  ;  or,  free  to  dine, 

Whirls  through  its  hour  of  health  (divine 

For  her)  the  concourse  of  the  Park. 

And  though  in  the  discounted  dark 

Her  functions  there  and  here  are  one, 

Beneath  the  lamps  and  in  the  sun 

There  reigns  at  least  the  acknowledged  belle 

Appareled  beyond  parallel. 

Ah,  Jenny,  yes,  we  know  your  dreams. 

For  even  the  Paphian  Venus  seems 
A  goddess  o'er  the  realms  of  love, 
When  silver-shrined  in  shadowy  grove : 
Ay,  or  let  offerings  nicely  placed 
But  hide  Priapus  to  the  waist, 
And  whoso  looks  on  him  shall  see 
An  eligible  deity. 

"Why,  Jenny,  waking  here  alone 
May  help  you  to  remember  one, 
Though  all  the  memory's  long  outworn 
Of  many  a  double-pillowed  morn. 
I  think  I  see  you  when  you  wake, 
And  rub  your  eyes  for  me,  and  shake 
My  gold,  in  rising,  from  your  hair, 
A  Danae  for  a  moment  there. 

Jenny,  my  love  rang  true  !  for  still 
Love  at  first  sight  is  vague,  until 
That  tinkling  makes  him  audible. 

And  must  I  mock  you  to  the  last, 
Ashamed  of  my  own  shame, —  aghast 
Because  some  thoughts  not  born  amiss 


92  THE  PORTRAIT. 

Rose  set  a  poor  fair  face  like  this  ? 

Well,  of  such  thoughts  so  much  I  know 
In  my  life,  as  in  hers,  they  show, 
By  a  far  gleam  which  I  may  near, 
A  dark  path  I  can  strive  to  clear. 

Only  one  kiss.     Good-by,  my  dear. 


THE  PORTRAIT. 

THIS  is  her  picture  as  she  was  : 
It  seems  a  thing  to  wonder  on, 

As  though  mine  image  in  the  glass 
Should  tarry  when  myself  am  gone. 

I  gaze  until  she  seems  to  stir, — 

Until  mine  eyes  almost  aver 

That  now,  even  now,  the  sweet  lips  part 
To  breathe  the  words  of  the  sweet  heart: 

And  yet  the  earth  is  over  her. 

Alas  !  even  such  the  thin-drawn  ray 

That  makes  the  prison-depths  more  rude,- 

The  drip  of  water  night  and  day 
Giving  a  tongue  to  solitude. 

Yet  only  this,  of  love's  whole  prize, 

Remains  ;  save  what  in  mournful  guise 
Takes  counsel  with  my  soul  alone, — 
Save  what  is  secret  and  unknown, 

Below  the  earth,  above  the  skies. 

In  painting  her  I  shrined  her  face 

'Mid  mystic  trees,  where  light  falls  in 

Hardly  at  all ;  a  covert  place 

Where  you  might  think  to  find  a  din 

Of  doubtful  talk,  and  a  live  flame 

Wandering,  and  many  a  shape  whose  name 


THE  PORTRAIT. 

Not  itself  knoweth,  and  old  dew, 
And  your  own  footsteps  meeting  you, 
And  all  things  going  as  they  came. 

A  deep  dim  wood  ;  and  there  she  stands 

As  in  that  wood  that  day  :  for  so 
Was  the  still  movement  of  her  hands 

And  such  the  pure  line's  gracious  flow. 
And  passing  fair  the  type  must  seem, 
Unknown  the  presence  and  the  dream. 

'Tis  she  :  though  of  herself,  alas  ! 

Less  than  her  shadow  on  the  grass 
Or  than  her  image  in  the  stream. 

That  day  we  met  there,  I  and  she 

One  with  the  other  all  alone  ; 
And  we  were  blithe  ;  yet  memory 

Saddens  those  hours,  as  when  the  moon 
Looks  upon  daylight.     And  with  her 
I  stooped  to  drink  the  spring-water, 

Athirst  where  other  waters  sprang  ; 

And  where  the  echo  is,  she  sang, — 
My  soul  another  echo  there. 

But  when  that  hour  my  soul  won  strength 
For  words  whose  silence  wastes  and  kills, 

Dull  raindrops  smote  us,  and  at  length 
Thundered  the  heat  within  the  hills. 

That  eve  I  spoke  those  words  again 

Beside  the  pelted  window-pane  ; 

And  there  she  hearkened  what  1  said, 
With  undei'-glances  that  surveyed 

The  empty  pastures  blind  with  rain. 

Next  day  the  memories  of  these  things, 

Like  leaves  through  which  a  bird  has  flown, 

Still  vibrated  with  Love's  warm  wings  ; 
Till  I  must  make  them  all  my  own 

And  paint  this  picture.     So,  'twixt  ease 


94  THE  PORTRAIT. 

Of  talk  and  sweet  long  silences, 

She  stood  among  the  plants  in  bloom 
At  windows  of  a  summer  room, 

To  feign  the  shadow  of  the  trees. 

And  as  I  wrought,  while  all  above 
And  all  around  was-  fragrant  air, 

In  the  sick  burthen  of  my  love 

It  seemed   each  sun-thrilled  blossom  there 

Beat  like  a  heart  among  the  leaves. 

O  heart  that  never  beats  nor  heaves, 
In  that  one  darkness  lying  still,  •> 
What  now  to  thee  my  love's  great  will 

Or  the  fine  web  the  sunshine  weaves  ? 

For  now  doth  daylight  disavow 

Those  days, —  naught  left  to  see  or  hear. 
Only  in  solemn  whispers  now 

At  night-time  these  things  reach  mine  ear, 
When  the  leaf -shadows  at  a  breath 
Shrink  in  the  road,  and  all  the  heath, 

Forest  and  water,  far  and  wide, 

In  limpid  starlight  glorified, 
Lie  like  the  mystery  of  death. 

Last  night  at  last  I  could  have  slept, 
And  yet  delayed  my  sleep  till  dawn, 

Still  wandering.     Then  it  was  I  wept  : 
For  unawares  I  came  upon 

Those  glades  where  once  she  walked  with  me  : 

And  as  I  stood  there  suddenly, 
All  wan  with  traversing  the  night, 
Upon  the  desolate  verge  of  light 

Yearned  loud  the  iron-bosomed  sea. 

Even  so,  where  Heaven  holds  breath  and  hears 
The  beating  heart  of  Love's  own  breast, — • 

Where  round  the  secret  of  all  spheres 
All  angels  lay  their  wings  to  rest, — 

How  shall  my  soul  stand  rapt  and  awed, 


SISTER  HELEN.  <J5 

When,  by  the  new  birth  borne  abroad 
Throughout  the  music  of  the  suns, 
It  enters  in  her  soul  at  once 

And  knows  the  silence  there  for  God  ! 

Here  with  her  face  doth  memory  sit 
Meanwhile,  and  wait  the  day's  decline, 

Till  other  eyes  shall  look  from  it, 
Eyes  of  the  spirit's  Palestine, 

Even  than  the  old  gaze  tenderer  : 

While  hopes  and  aims  long  lost  with  her 
Stand  round  her  image  side  by  side, 
Like  tombs  of  pilgrims  that  have  died 

About  the  Holy  Sepulchre. 


SISTER  HELEK 

did  you  melt  your  waxen  man, 

Sister  Helen  ? 

To-day  is  the  third  since  you  began." 
"  The  time  was  long,  yet  the  time  ran, 

Little  brother." 
(  0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Three  days  to-day,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ! ) 

"  But  if  you  have  done  your  work  aright, 

Sister  Helen, 

You'll  let  me  play,  for  you  said  I  might." 

"  Be  very  still  in  your  play  to-night, 

Little  brother." 
( 0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Third  night,  to-night,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ! ) 

"  You  said  it  must  melt  ere  vesper-bell, 

Sister  Helen  ; 
If  now  it  be  molten,  all  is  well." 


I  SISTE&  HELEtt. 

"  Even  so, —  nay,  peace  !  you  cannot  tell, 

Little  brother." 
(  0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
0  what  is  this,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ? ) 

"Oh  the  waxen  knave  was  plump  to-day, 

Sister  Helen  ; 

How  like  dead  folk  he  has  dropped  away  !  " 
"  Nay  now,  of  the  dead  what  can  you  say, 

Little  brother?" 

( 0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

"What  of  the  dead,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ? ) 

"  See,  see,  the  sunken  pile  of  wood, 

Sister  Helen, 

Shines  through  the  thinned  wax  red  as  blood  ! " 
"  Nay  now,  when  looked  you  yet  on  blood, 

Little  brother  ?  " 
(  0  Mother,  Mary  Mother^ 
How  pale  she  is,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ! ) 

"  Now  close  your  eyes,  for  they're  sick  and  sore, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  I'll  play  without  the  gallery  door." 
"Ay,  let  me  rest, —  I'll  lie  on  the  floor, 

Little  brother." 
( 0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
"What  rest  to-night,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ? ) 

"  Here  high  up  in  the  balcony, 

Sister  Helen, 

The  moon  flies  face  to  face  with  me." 
"  Ay,  look  and  say  whatever  you  see, 

Little  brother." 
( 0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  sight  to-night,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?') 

"Outside  it's  merry  in  the  wind's  wako, 

Sister  Helen  ; 
In  the  shaken  trees  the  chill  stars  shake." 


SISTER  HELEN.  97 

"  Hush,  heard  you  a  horse-tread  as  you  spake, 

Little  brothe:;?" 
( O  Mother,  Mary  Mciher, 
What  sound  to-night,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  f  ) 

"  I  hear  a  horse-tread,  and  I  see, 

Sister  Helen, 

Three  horsemen  that  ride  terribly." 

"  Little  brother,  whence  come  the  three, 

Little  brother?" 
( O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Whence  should  they  come,  between  Hell  and  Heaven?) 

"  They  come  by  the  hill-verge  from  Boyne  Bar, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  one  draws  nigh,  but  two  are  afar." 

"Look,  look,  do  you  know  them  who  they  are, 

Little  brother?" 
(  O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Who  should  they  be,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  f  ) 

"  Oh,  it's  Keith  of  Eastholm  rides  so  fast, 

Sister  Helen, 

For  I  know  the  white  mane  on  the  blast." 

"  The  hour  has  come,  has  come  at  last, 

Little  brother !  " 
(  0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Her  hour  at  last,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 

"  He  has  made  a  sign  and  called  Halloo  ! 

Sister  Helen 

And  he  says  that  he  would  sprak  with  you." 
"  Oh  tell  him  I  fear  the  frozen  dew, 

Little  brother." 
( 0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Why  laugJis  she  thus,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 

"  The  wind  is  loud,  but  I  hear  him  cry, 

Sister  Helen, 

That  Keith  of  Ewern's  like  to  die." 
7 


HELEN. 

"  And  he  and  thou,  and  them  and  I, 

Little  brother." 
( O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
And  they  and  we,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 

"Three  days  ago,  on  his mr-r: lage-morn, 

Sister  Helen, 

He  sickened,  and  lies  since    \\  n  forlorn." 

"  For  bridegroom's  side  is  the  bride  a  thorn, 

Little  brother?" 
( 0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Cold  bridal  cheer,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ! ) 

"  Three  days  and  nights  he  has  lain  abed 

Sister  Helen, 

And  he  prays  in  torment  to  be  dead." 

"  The  thing  may  chance,  if  he  have  prayed, 

Little  brother  !  " 
(  0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

If  he  have  prayed,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  I ) 

"  But  he  has  not  ceased  to  cry  to-day, 

Sister  H'^n, 

That  you  should  take  y  ur  cur^e  away." 

"  My  prayer  was  heard, —  h    need  not  \  r.-.y, 

Little  brother !  " 
(  0  M)ther,  Mary  Mother, 

Shall  God  not  hear,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  f 

"  But  he  says,  till  you  take  back  your  ban, 

Sister  Helen, 

His  soul  would  pass,  yet  never  can." 

"  Nay  then,  shall  I  slay  a  living  man, 

Little  brother?" 
( 6  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

A  living  soul,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ! ) 

"  But  he  calls  for  ever  on  your  name, 

Sister  Helen, 
And  says  that  he  melts  before  a  flame." 


SISTE&  HELEN;  99 

"  My  heart  for  his  pleasure  fared  the  same, 

Little  brother." 
(  0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Fire  at  the  heart,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !  ) 

"  Here's  Keith  of  Westholm  riding  fast, 

Sister  Helen, 

For  I  know  the  white  plume  on  the  blast." 

"  The  hour,  the  sweet  hour  I  forecast, 

Little  brother ! " 
( 0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Is  the  hour  sweet,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  f  ) 

"  He  stops  to  speak,  and  he  stills  his  horse, 

Sister  Helen  ; 

Bat  his  words  are  drowned  in  the  wind's  course." 
"  Nay  hear,  nay  hear,  you  must  hear  perforce, 

Little  brother  ! " 
( O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
What  word  now  heard,  beticeen  Hell  and  Heaven  f  ) 

"  Oh  he  says  that  Keith  of  Ewern's  cry, 

Sister  Helen, 

Is  ever  to  see  you  ere  he  die." 

"  In  all  that  his  soul  sees,  there  am  I, 

Little  brother ! " 
( 0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

The  soul's  one  sight,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  I ) 

"  He  sends  a  ring  and  a  broken  coin, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  bids  you  mind  the  banks  of  Boyne." 

"  What  else  he  broke  will  he  ever  join, 

Little  brother  ?  " 
( 0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

No,  never  joined,  between  Hell  and  Heaven!) 

"  He  yields  you  these  and  craves  full  fain, 

Sister  Helen, 
You  pardon  him  in  his  mortal  pain." 


100  SISTER  HELEN. 

"  What  else  he  took  will  he  give  again, 

Little  brother  ?  * 
(  O  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
Not  twice  to  give,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ! ) 

"  He  calls  your  name  in  an  agony, 

Sister  Helen, 

That  even  dead  Love  must  we'ep  to  see." 

"  Hate,  born  of  Love,  is  blind  as  he, 

Little  brother  ! " 
(  0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Love  turned  to  hate,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  I ) 

"  Oh  it's  Keith  of  Keith  now  that  rides  fas', 

Sister  Helen, 

For  I  know  the  white  hair  on  the  blast." 

"  The  short,  short  hour  will  soon  be  past, 

Little  brother  !  " 
(  0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

"Will  soon  be  past,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !  ) 

"  He  looks  at  me  and  he  tries  to  speak, 

Sist  r  Helen, 

But  oh  !  his  voice  is  sad  and  weak  !  " 

"  What  here  should  the  mighty  Baron  seek, 

Little  brother  ?  " 
(  0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Is  this  the  end,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?  ) 

"  Oh  his  son  still  cries,  if  you  forgive, 

Sister  Helen, 

The  body  dies,  but  the  soul  shall  live." 

"  Fire  shall  forgive  me  as  I  forgive, 

Little  brother  ! " 
(  0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

As  she  forgives,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !  ) 

"  Oh  he  prays  you,  as  his  heart  would  rive, 

Sister  Helen, 
To  save  his  dear  son's  soul  alive." 


SISTER  HELEN.  101 

"  Fire  cannot  slay  it,  it  shall  thrive, 

Little  brother  ! " 
(  0  Mother,  Mary  Mother ; 
A  las,  alas,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !  ) 

"  He  cries  to  you,  kneeling  in  the  road, 

Sister  Helen, 

To  go  with  him  for  the  love  of  God  !  " 

"  The  way  is  long  to  his  son's  abode, 

Little  brother." 
( 0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

TJie  way  is  long,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !  ) 

"  A  lady's  here,  by  a  dark  steed  brought, 

Sister  Helen, 

So  darkly  clad,  I  saw  her  not." 

"  See  her  now  or  never  see  aught, 

Little  brother  !  " 
( 0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

What  more  to  see,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  f ) 

"  Her  hood  falls  back,  and  the  moon  shines  fair, 

Sister  Helen, 

On  the  Lady  of  Ewern's  golden  hair." 

"  Blest  hotir  of  my  power  and  her  despair, 

Little  brother  ! " 
(  0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Hour  blest  and  banned,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !  ) 

"  Pale,  pale  her  cheeks,  that  in  pride  did  glow, 

Sister  Helen, 

'Neath  the  bridal-wreath  three  days  ago." 

"  One  morn  for  pride  and  three  days  for  woe, 

Little  brother  ! " 
( 0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Three  days,  three  nights,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !  ) 

"  Her  clasped  hands  stretch  from  her  bending  head, 

Sister  Helen  ; 
"With  the  loud  wind's  wail  her  sobs  are  wed." 


102  SISTER  HELEN. 

"  What  wedding-strains  hath  her  bridal-bed, 

Little  brother  ?  " 
(  0  Mother,  Mar}/  Mother, 
What  strain  but  death's,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ? ) 

"  She  may  not  speak,  she  sinks  in  a  swoon, 

Sister  Helen, — 

She  lifts  her  lips  and  gasps  on  the  moon." 

"  Oh  !  might  I  but  hear  her  soul's  blithe  tune, 

Little  brother  !  " 
( 0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Her  woe's  dumb  cry,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !  ) 

"  They've  caught  her  to  Westholm's  saddle-bow, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  her  moonlit  hair  gleams  white  in  its  flow." 

"  Let  it  turn  whiter  than  winter  snow, 

Little  brother  ! " 
( 0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Woe-withered  gold,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !  ) 

"  O  Sister  Helen,  you  heard  the  bell, 

Sister  Helen ! 

More  loud  than  the  vesper-chime  it  fell." 
"  No  vesper-chime,  but  a  dying  knell, 

Little  brother ! " 
(  0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
His  dying  Jcnett,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !  ) 

"  Alas  !  but  I  fear  the  heavy  sound, 

Sister  Helen  ; 

Is  it  in  the  sky  or  in  the  ground  ?  " 

"  Say,  have  they  turned  their  horses  round, 

Little  brother  ?  " 
( 0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

WJiat  would  she  more,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ?  ) 

"They  have  raised  the  old  man  from  his  knee, 

Sister  Helen, 
And  they  ride  in  silence  hastily." 


SISTER  HELEN.  103 

"  More  fast  the  naked  soul  doth  flee, 

Little  brother  ! " 
(  0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 
The  naked  soul,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  ! ) 

"  Flank  to  flank  are  the  three  steeds  gone, 

Sister  Helen, 

But  the  lady's  dark  steed  goes  alone." 

"  And  lonely  her  bridegroom's  soul  hath  flown, 

Little  brother." 
(Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

The  lonely  ghost,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  !  ) 

"  Oh  the  wind  is  sad  in  the  iron  chill, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  weary  sad  they  look  by  the  hill." 

"  But  he  and  I  are  sadder  still, 

Little  brother  ! " 
(  0  Mother,  Mar;/  Mother, 

Most  sad  of  all,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  /) 

"  See,  see,  the  wax  has  dropped  from  its  place, 

Sister  Helen, 

And  the  flames  are  winning  up  apace  ! " 

"  Yet  here  they  burn  but  for  a  space, 

Little  brother  ! " 
(  0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Here  for  a  space,  between  Hell  and  Heaven! ) 

"  Ah  !  what  white  thing  at  the  door  has  cross'd, 

Sister  Helen  ? 

Ah  !  what  is  this  that  sighs  in  the  frost  ?  " 

"  A  soul  that's  lost  as  mine  is  lost, 

Little  brother ! " 
(  0  Mother,  Mary  Mother, 

Lost,  lost,  all  lost,  between  Hell  and  Heaven  I ) 


104  STRATTON  WATER. 


STRATTON  WATER. 

"  O  HAVE  you  seen  the  Stratton  flood 

That's  great  with  rain  to-day  ? 
It  runs  beneath  your  wall,  Lord  Sands, 

Full  of  the  new-mown  hay. 

"  I  led  your  hounds  to  Hutton  bank 

To  bathe  at  early  morn  : 
They  got  their  bath  by  Borrowbrake 

Above  the  standing  corn." 

Out  from  the  castle-stair  Lord  Sands 

Looked  up  the  western  lea  ; 
The  rook  was  grieving  on  her  nest, 

The  flood  was  round  her  tree. 

Over  the  castle-wall  Lord  Sands 

Looked  down  the  eastern  hill  : 
The  stakes  swam  free  among  the  boats, 

The  flood  was  rising  still. 

K  What's  yonder  far  below  that  lies 

So  white  against  the  slope  ?  " 
"  O  it's  a  sail  o'  your  bonny  barks 

The  waters  have  washed  up." 

"  But  I  have  never  a  sail  so  white, 
And  the  water's  not  yet  there." 

"  O  it's  the  swans  o'  your  bonny  lake 
The  rising  flood  doth  scare." 

"  The  swans  they  would  not  hold  so  still, 

So  high  they  would  not  win." 
"  O  it's  Joyce  my  wife  has  spread  her  smock 

And  fears  to  fetch  it  in." 

"Nay,  knave,  it's  neither  sail  nor  swans, 

Nor  aught  that  you  can  say  ; 
For  though  your  wife  might  leave  her  smock, 

Herself  she'd  bring  away." 


STRATTON   WATER.  105 

Lord  Sands  has  passed  the  turret-stair, 

The  court,  and  yard,  and  all  ; 
The  kine  were  in  the  byre  that  day, 

The  nags  were  in  the  stall. 

Lord  Sands  has  won  the  weltering  slope 

Whereon  the  white  shape  lay  : 
The  clouds  were  still  above  the  hill, 

And  the  shape  was  still  as  they. 

Oh  pleasant  is  the  gaze  of  life 

And  sad  is  death's  blind  head  ; 
But  awful  are  the  living  eyes 

In  the  face  of  one  thought  dead  ! 

"  In  God's  name,  Janet,  is  it  me 

Thy  ghost  has  come  to  seek  ?  " 
"  Nay,  wait  another  hour,  Lord  Sands, — 

Be  sure  my  ghost  shall  speak." 

A  moment  stood  he  as  a  stone, 

Then  groveled  to  his  knee. 
"  O  Janet,  O  my  love,  my  love, 

Rise  up  and  come  with  me  !  " 
"  O  once  before  you  bade  me  come, 

And  it's  here  you  have  brought  me  ! 

"  O  many's  the  sweet  word,  Lord  Sands, 

You've  spoken  oft  to  me  ; 
But  all  that  I  have  from  you  to-day 

Is  the  rain  on  my  body. 

"  And  many's  the  good  gift,  Lord  Sands^ 

You've  promised  oft  to  me  ; 
But  the  gift  of  yours  I  keep  to-day 

Is  the  babe  in  my  body. 

"  O  it's  not  in  any  earthly  bed 

That  first  my  babe  I'll  see  ; 
For  I  have  brought  my  body  here 

That  the  flood  may  cover  me," 


106  STRATTON  WATER. 

His  face  was  close  against  her  face, 

His  hands  of  hers  were  fain  : 
O  her  wet  cheeks  were  hot  with  tears, 

Her  wet  hands  cold  with  rain. 

"  They  told  me  you  were  dead,  Janet, — 

How  could  I  guess  the  lie  ?  " 
"  They  told  me  you  were  false,  Lord  Sands,- 

What  could  I  do  but  die  ?  " 

"  Now  keep  you  well,  my  brother  Giles, — 
Through  you  I  deemed  her  dead  ! 

As  wan  as  your  towers  be  to-day, 
To-morrow  they'll  be  red. 

"  Look  down,  look  down,  my  false  mother, 

That  bade  me  not  to  grieve  : 
You'll  look  up  when  our  marriage  fires 

Are  lit  to-morrow  eve. 

"  O  more  than  one  and  more  than  two 

The  sorrow  of  this  shall  see  : 
But  it's  to-morrow,  love,  for  them, — 

To-day's  for  thee  and  me." 

He's  drawn  her  face  between  his  hands 

And  her  pale  mouth  to  his  : 
No  bird  that  was  so  still  that  day 

Chirps  sweeter  than  his  kiss. 

The  flood  was  creeping  round  their  feet. 

"  O  Janet,  come  away  ! 
The  hall  is  warm  for  the  marriage-rite, 

The  bed  for  the  birthday." 

"  Nay,  but  I  hear  your  mother  cry, 

'  Go  bring  this  bride  to  bed  ! 
And  would  she  christen  her  babe  unborn, 

So  wet  she  comes  to  wed  ? ' 


STRATTON  WATER.  107 

"  I'll  be  your  wife  to  cross  your  door 

And  meet  your  mother's  e'e. 
We  plighted  troth  to  wed  i'  the  kirk, 

And  it's  there  I'll  wed  with  ye." 

He's  ta'en  her  by  the  short  girdle 

And  by  the  dripping  sleeve  : 
"  Go  fetch  Sir  Jock  my  mother's  priest, — - 

You'll  ask  of  him  no  leave. 

"  O  it's  one  half-hour  to  reach  the  kirk 

And  one  for  the  marriage-rite  ; 
And  kirk  and  castle  and  castle-lands 

Shall  be  our  babe's  to-night." 

"The  food's  in  the  kirkyard,  Lord  Sands, 

And  vound  the  belfry-stair." 
"  I  bade  ye  fetch  the  priest,"  he  said, 

"  Myself  shall  bring  him  there. 

"  It's  for  the  lilt  of  wedding  bells 

We'll  have  the  hail  to  pour, 
And  for  the  clink  of  bridle-reins 

The  plashing  of  the  oar." 

Beneath  them  on  the  nether  hill 

A  boat  was  floating  wide  : 
Lord  Sands  swam  out  and  caught  the  oars 

And  rode  to  the  hill-side. 

He's  wrapped  her  in  a  green  mantle 

And  set  her  softly  in  ; 
Her  hair  was  wet  upon  her  face, 

Her  face  was  gray  and  thin  ; 
And  "  Oh  !  "  she  said,  "  lie  still,  my  babe, 

It's  out  you  must  not  win  !  " 

But  woe's  my  heart  for  Father  John  ! 

As  hard  as  he  might  pray, 
There  seemed  no  help  but  Noah's  ark 

Or  Jonah's  fish  that  day. 


108  STRATTON  WATER. 

The  first  strokes  that  the  oars  struck 

Were  over  the  broad  leas  ; 
The  next  strokes  that  the  oars  struck 

They  pushed  beneath  the  trees  ; 

The  last  stroke  that  the  oars  struck, 

The  good  boat's  head  was  met, 
And  there  the  gate  of  the  kirkyard 

Stood  like  a  ferry-gate. 

He's  set  his  hand  upon  the  bar 

And  lightly  leaped  within  : 
He's  lifted  her  to  his  left  shoulder, 

Her  knees  beside  his  chin. 

The  graves  lay  deep  beneath  the  flood 

Under  the  rain  alone  ; 
And  when  the  foot-stone  made  him  slip, 

He  held  by  the  head-stone. 

The  empty  boat  thrawed  i'  the  wind, 

Against  the  postern  tied. 
"  Hold  still,  you've  brought  my  love  with  me, 

You  shall  take  back  my  bride." 

But  woe's  my  heart  for  Father  John 

And  the  saints  he  clamored  to  ! 
There's  never  a  saint  but  Christopher 

Might  hale  such  buttocks  through  ! 

And  "  Oh  !  "  she  said,  "  on  men's  shoulders 

I  well  had  thought  to  wend, 
And  well  to  travel  with  a  priest, 

But  not  to  have  cared  or  ken'd. 

"  And  oh  !  "  she  said,  "  it's  well  this  way 
That  I  thought  to  have  fared, — 

Not  to  have  lighted  at  the  kirk 
But  stopped  in  the  kirkyard. 


THE  STREAM'S  SECRET.  109 

*'  For  it's  oh  and  oh  I  prayed  to  God, 

Whose  rest  I  hoped  to  win, 
That  when  to-night  at  your  board-head 

You'd  bid  the  feast  begin, 
This  water  past  your  window-sill 

Might  bear  my  body  in." 

Now  make  the  white  bed  warm  and  soft 

And  greet  the  merry  morn. 
The  night  the  mother  should  have  died 

The  young  son  shall  be  born. 


THE  STREAM'S  SECRET. 

WHAT  thing  unto  mine  ear 
Wouldst  thou  convey, —  what  secret  thing, 
O  wandering  water  ever  whispering  ? 

Surely  thy  speech  shall  be  of  her. 
Thou  water,  O  thou  whispering  wanderer, 
What  message  dost  thou  bring  ? 

Say,  hath  not  Love  leaned  low 
This  hour  beside  thy  far  well  head, 
And  there  through  jealous  hollowed  fingers  said 

The  thing  that  most  I  long  to  know, — 
Murmuring  with  curls  all  dabbled  in  thy  flow 
And  washed  lips  rosy  red  ? 

He  told  it  to  thee  there 
Where  thy  voice  hath  a  louder  tone  ; 
But  where  it  welters  to  this  little  moan 

His  will  decrees  that  I  should  hear. 
Now  speak  :  for  with  the  silence  is  no  fear, 
And  I  am  all  alone. 

Shall  Time  not  still  endow 
One  hour  with  life,  and  I  and  she 
Slake  in  one  kiss  the  thirst  of  memory  ? 


110  THE  STREAM'S  SECRET. 

Say,  stream  ;  lest  Love  should  disavow 
Thy  service,  and  the  bird  upon  the  bough 
Sing  first  to  tell  it  me. 


What  whisperest  thou  ?    Nay,  Avhy 

Name  the  dead  hours  ?     I  mind  them  well  : 

Their  ghosts  in  many  darkened  doorways  dwell 

With  desolate  eyes  to  know  them  by. 
That  hour  must  still  be  born  ere  it  can  die  : 
Of  that  I'd  have  thee  tell. 

But  hear,  before  thou  speak  ! 
Withhold,  I  pray,  the  vain  behest 
That  while  the  maze  hath  still  its  bower  for  quest 

My  burning  heart  should  cease  to  seek. 
Be  sure  that  Love  ordained  for  souls  more  meek 
His  roadside  dells  of  rest. 

Stream,  when  this  silver  thread 
In  flood-time  is  a  torrent  brown, 
May  any  bulwark  bind  thy  foaming  crown  ? 

Shall  not  the  waters  surge  and  spread 
And  to  the  crannied  boulders  of  their  bed 
Still  shoot  the  dead  drift  down  ? 


Let  no  rebuke  find  place 
In  speech  of  thine  :  or  it  shall  prove 
That  thou  dost  ill  expound  the  words  of  Love, 

Even  as  thine  eddy's  rippling  race 
Would  blur  the  perfect  image  of  his  face. 
I  will  have  none  thereof. 


O  learn  and  understand 
That  'gainst  the  wrongs  himself  did  wreak 
Love  sought  her  aid  ;  until  her  shadowy  cheek 

And  eyes  beseeching  gave  command  ; 
And  compassed  in  her  close  compassionate  hand 
My  heart  must  burn  and  speak. 


THE  STREAM'S  SECRET  111 

For  then  at  last  we  spoke 
What  eyes  so  oft  had  told  to  eyea 
Through  that  long-lingering  silence  whose  half-sighs 

Alone  the  buried  secret  broke, 

Which  with  snatched  hands  and  lips'  reverberate  stroke 
Then  from  the  heart  did  rise. 

But  she  is  far  away 

Now  ;  nor  the  hours  of  night  grown  hoar 
Bring  yet  to  me,  long  gazing  from  the  door, 

The  wind-stirred  robe  of  roseate  gray 
And  rose-crown  of  the  hour  that  leads  the  day 
When  we  shall  meet  once  more. 

Dark  as  thy  blinded  wave 
When  brimming  midnight  floods  the  glen, — 
Bright  as  the  laughter  of  thy  runnels  when 
The  dawn  yields  all  the  light  they  crave  ; 
Even  so  these  hours  to  wound  and  that  to  save 
Are  sisters  in  Love's  ken. 

Oh  sweet  her  bending  grace 
Then  when  I  kneel  beside  her  feet  ; 
And  sweet  her  eyes'  o'erhanging  heaven  ;  and   sweet 

The  gathering  folds  of  her  embrace  ; 
And  her  fall'n  hair  at  last  shed  round  my  face 
When  breaths  and  tears  shall  meet. 

Beneath  her  sheltering  hair, 
In  the  warm  silence  near  her  breast, 
Our  kisses  and  our  sobs  shall  sink  to  rest  ; 

As  in  some  still  trance  made  aware 
That  day  and  night  have  wrought  to  fullness  there 
And  Love  has  built  our  nest. 

And  as  in  the  dim  grove, 
When  the  rains  cease  that  hushed  them  long, 
'Mid  glistening  boughs  the  song-birds  wake  to  song, — 

So  from  our  hearts  deep-shrined  in  love, 
While  the  leaves  throb  beneath,  around,  above, 
The  quivering  notes  shall  throng. 


112  THE  STREAM'S  SECRET. 

Till  tenderest  words  found  vain 
Draw  back  to  wonder  mute  and  deep, 
And  closed  lips  in  closed  arm  a  silence  keep, 

Subdued  by  memory's  circling  strain, — 
The  wind-rapt  sound  that  the  wind  brings  again 
While  all  the  willows  weep. 

Then  by  her  summoning  art 
Shall  memory  conjure  back  the  sere 
Autumnal  Springs,  from  many  a  dying  year 

Born  dead  ;  and,  bitter  to  the  heart, 
The  very  ways  where  now  we  walk  apart 
Who  then  shall  cling  so  near. 

And  with  each  thought  new-grown, 
Some  sweet  caress  or  some  sweet  name 
Low-breathed  shall  let  me  know  her  thought  the  same  ; 

Making  me  rich  with  every  tone 
And  touch  of  the  dear  heaven  so  long  unknown 
That  filled  my  dreams  with  flame. 

Pity  and  love  shall  burn 
In  her  pressed  cheek  and  cherishing  hands  ; 
And  from  the  living  spirit  of  love  that  stands 

Between  her  lips  to  soothe  and  yearn, 
Each  separate  breath  shall  clasp  me  round  in  turn 
And  loose  my  spirit's  bands. 

Oh  passing  sweet  and  dear, 
Then  when  the  worshiped  form  and  face 
Are  felt  at  length  in  darkling  close  embrace  ; 

Round  which  so  oft  the  sun  shone  clear, 
With  mocking  light  and  pitiless  atmosphere, 
In  many  an  hour  and  place. 

Ah  me  !  with  what  proud  growth 
Shall  that  hour's  thirsting  race  be  run  ; 
While,  for  each  several  sweetness  still  begun 


'THE  STREAM'S  SECRET.  Il3 

Afresh,  endures  love's  endless  drouth  : 
Sweet  hands,  sweet  hair,  sweet  cheeks,  sweet  eyes, 

sweet  mouth, 
Each  singly  wooed  and  won. 

Yet  most  with  the  sweet  soul 
Shall  love's  espousals  then  be  knit ; 
What  time  the  governing  cloud  sheds  peace  from  it 

O'er  tremulous  wings  that  touch  the  goal, 
And  on  the  unmeasured  height  of  Love's  control 
The  lustral  fires  are  lit. 

Therefore,  when  breast  and  cheek 
Now  part,  from  long  embraces  free, — 
Each  on  the  other  gazing  shall  but  see 

A  self  that  has  no  need  to  speak  : 
All  things  unsought,  yet  nothing  more  to  seek, — 
One  love  in  unity. 

O  water  wandering  past, — 
Albeit  to  thee  I  speak  this  thing, 
O  water,  thou  that  wanderest  whispering, 

Thou  keep'st  thy  counsel  to  the  last. 
What  spell  upon  thy  bosom  should  Love  cast, 
Its  secret  thence  to  wring  ? 

Nay,  must  thou  hear  the  tale 
Of  the  past  days, —  the  heavy  debt 
Of  life  that  obdurate  time  withholds, —  ere  yet 

To  win  thine  ear  these  prayers  prevail, 
And  by  thy  voice  Love's  self  with  high  All-hail 
Yield  up  the  amulet  ? 

How  should  all  this  be  told  ?  — 
All  the  sad  sum  of  wayworn  days  ;  — 
Heart's  anguish  in  the  impenetrable  maze  ;. 

And  on  the  waste  un colored  wold 
The  visible  burthen  of  the  sun  grown  cold 
And  the  moon's  laboring  gaze  ? 


114  THE  STREAM'S  SECRET. 

Alas  !  shall  hope  be  nuvs'd 
On  life's  all-succoring  breast  in  vain, 
And  made  so  perfect  only  to  be  slain  ? 
Or  shall  not  rather  the  sweet  thirst 
Even  yet  rejoice  the  heart  with  warmth  dispers'd 
And  strength  grown  fair  again  ? 

Stands  it  not  by  the  door  — 
Love's  Hour  —  till  she  and  I  shall  meet ; 
With  bodiless  form  and  unapparent  feet 

That  cast  no  shadow  yet  before, 
Though  round  its  head  the  dawn  begins  to  pour 
The  breath  that  makes  day  sweet? 

Its  eyes  invisible 

Watch  till  the  dial's  thin-thrown  shade 
Be  born, —  yea,  till  the  journeying  line  be  laid 

Upon  the  point  that  wTakes  the  spell, 
And  there  in  lovelier  light  than  tongue  can  tell 
Its  presence  stand  array'd. 

Its  soul  remembers  yet 
Those  sunless  hours  that  passed  it  by  ; 
And  still  it  hears  the  night's  disconsolate  cry, 

And  feels  the  branches  wringing  wet 
Cast  on  its  brow,  that  may  not  once  forget, 
Dumb  tears  from  the  blind  sky. 

But  oh  !  when  now  her  foot 
Draws  near,  for  whose  sake  night  and  day 
Were  long  in  weary  longing  sighed  away, — 
The  hour  of  Love,  'mid  airs  grown  mute, 
Shall  sing  beside  the  door,  and  Love's  own  lut« 
Thrill  to  the  passionate  lay. 

Thou  know'st,  for  Love  has  told 
Within  thine  ear,  O  stream,  how  soon 
That  song  shall  lift  its  sweet  appointed  tune. 

O  tell  me,  for  my  lips  are  cold, 
And  in  my  veins  the  blood  is  waxing  old 
Even  while  I  beg  the  boon. 


THE  STREAM'S  SECRET.  Il5 

So,  in  that  hour  of  sighs 
Assuaged,  shall  we  beside  this  stone 
Yield  thanks  for  grace  ;  while  in  thy  mirror  shown 

The  twofold  image  softly  lies, 
Until  we  kiss,  and  each  in  other's  eyes 
Is  imaged  all  alone. 

Still  silent  ?  Can  no  art 
Of  Love's  then  move  thy  pity  ?  Nay, 
To  thee  let  nothing  come  that  owns  his  sway  : 

Let  happy  lovers  have  no  part 
With  thee  ;  nor  even  so  sad  and  poor  a  heart 
As  thou  hast  spurned  to-day. 

To-day  ?  Lo  !  night  is  here. 
The  glen  grows  heavy  with  some  veil 
Risen  from  the  earth  or  fall'n  to  make  earth  pale  ; 

And  all  stands  hushed  to  eye  and  ear, 
Until  the  night-wind  shake  the  shade  like  fear 
And  every  covert  quail. 

Ah  !  by  another  wave 
On  other  airs  the  hour  must  come 
Which  to  thy  heart,  my  love,  shall  call  me  home. 

Between  the  lips  of  the  low  cave 
Against  that  night  the  lapping  waters  lave, 
And  the  dark  lips  are  dumb. 

But  there  Love's  self  doth  stand, 
And  with  Life's  weary  wings  far  flown, 
And  with  Death's  eyes  that  make  the  water  moan, 

Gathers  the  water  in  his  hand  : 
And  they  that  drink  know  naught  of  sky  or  land 
But  only  love  alone. 

O  soul-sequestered  face 
Far  off, —  O  were  that  night  but  now  ! 
So  even  beside  that  stream  even  I  and  thou 

Through  thirsting  lips  should  draw  Love's  grace, 
And  in  the  zone  of  that  supreme  embrace 
Bind  aching  breast  and  brow. 


116  THE  CARD  DEALER. 

O  water  whispering 

Still  through  the  dark  into  mine  ears, — 
As  with  mine  eyes,  is  it  not  now  with  hers  ?  — 

Mine  eyes  that  add  to  thy  cold  spring, 
Wan  water,  wandering  water  weltering, 
This  hidden  tide  of  tears. 


THE  CARD-DEALER. 

COULD  you  not  drink  her  gaze  like  wine  ? 

Yet  though  its  splendor  swoon 
Into  the  silence  languidly 

As  a  tune  into  a  tune, 
Those  eyes  unravel  the  coiled  night 

And  know  the  stars  at  noon. 

The  gold  that's  heaped  beside  her  hand, 

In  truth  rich  prize  it  were  ; 
And  rich  the  dreams  that  wreathe  her  brows 

With  magic  stillness  there  ; 
And  he  were  rich  who  should  unwind 

That  woven  golden  hair. 

Around  her,  where  she  sits,  the  dance 

Now  breathes  its  eager  heat  ; 
And  not  more  lightly  or  more  true 

Fall  there  the  dancers'  feet 
Than  fall  her  cards  on  the  bright  board 

As  'twere  an  heart  that  beat. 

Her  fingers  let  them  softly  through,  ' 

Smooth  polished  silent  things  ; 
And  each  one  as  it  falls  reflects 

In  swift  light-shadowings, 
Blood-red  and  purple,  green  and  blue, 

The  great  eyes  of  her  rings. 


THE  CARD-DEALER.  117 

Whom  plays  she  with  ?     With  thee,  who  lov'st 

Those  gems  upon  her  hand  ; 
With  me,  who  search  her  secret  brows  ; 

With  all  men,  bless'd  or  bann'd 
We  play  together,  she  and  we, 

Within  a  vain  strange  land  : 

A  land  without  any  order, — 

Day  even  as  night,  (one  saith,)  — 
Where  who  lieth  down  ariseth  not 

Nor  the  sleeper  awaken  eth  ; 
A  land  of  darkness  as  darkness  itself 

And  of  the  shadow  of  death. 

What  be  her  cards,  you  ask?    Even  these  :  — 

The  heart,  that  doth  but  crave 
More,  having  fed  ;  the  diamond, 

Skilled  to  make  base  seem  brave  ; 
The  club,  for  smiting  in  the  dark  ; 

The  spade,  to  dig  a  grave. 

And  do  you  ask  what  game  she  plays  ? 

With  me  'tis  lost  or  won  ; 
With  thee  it  is  playing  still  ;  with  him 

It  is  not  well  begun  ; 
But  'tis  a  game  she  plays  with  all 

Beneath  the  sway  o'  the  sun. 

Thou  seest  the  card  that  falls, —  she  knows 

The  card  that  followeth  : 
Her  game  in  thy  tongue  is  called  Life, 

As  ebbs  thy  daily  breath  : 
When  she  shall  speak,  thou'lt  learn  her  tongue 

And  know  she  calls  it  Death. 


118  MY  SIS TER  ' S  SLEEP. 


MY  SISTER'S  SLEEP.* 

SHE  fell  asleep  on  Christmas  Eve  : 
At  length  the  long-ungranted  shade 
Of  weary  eyelids  overweigh'd 

The  pain  naught  else  might  yet  relieve. 

Our  mother,  who  had  leaned  all  day 
Over  the  bed  from  chime  to  chime, 
Then  raised  herself  for  the  first  time, 

And  as  she  sat  her  down,  did  pray. 

Her  little  work  table  was  spread 

With  work  to  finish.     For  the  glare 
Made  by  her  candle,  she  had  care 

To  work  some  distance  from  the  bed. 

Without,  there  was  a  cold  moon  up, 
Of  winter  radiance  sheer  and  thin  ; 
The  hollow  halo  it  was  in 

Was  like  an  icy  crystal  cup. 

Through  the  small  room,  with  subtle  sound 
Of  flame,  by  vents  the  fireshine  drove 
And  reddened.     In  its  dim  alcove 

The  mirror  shed  a  clearness  round. 

I  had  been  sitting  up  some  nights, 

And  my  tired  mind  felt  weak  and  blank  ; 
Like  a  sharp  strengthening  wine  it  drank 

The  stillness  and  the  broken  lights. 

Twelve  struck.     That  sound,  by  dwindling  years 
Heard  in  each  hour,  crept  off  ;  and  then 
The  ruffled  silence  spread  again, 

Like  water  that  a  pebble  stirs. 

*  This  little  poem,  written  in  1847,  was  printed  in  a  peri- 
odical at  the  outset  of  1850.  The  meter,  which  is  used  by 
several  old  English  writers,  became  celebrated  a  month  or  two 
later  on  the  publication  of  "  In  Memoriam," 


MY  SISTER'S  SLEEP.  119 

Our  mother  rose  from  where  she  sat  : 
Her  needles,  as  she  laid  them  down, 
Met  lightly,  and  her  silken  gown 

Settled  :  no  other  noise  than  that. 

"  Glory  unto  the  Newly  Born  ! " 

So,  as  said  angels,  she  did  say  ; 

Because  we  were  in  Christmas  Day, 
Though  it  would  still  be  long  till  morn. 

Just  then  in  the  room  over  us 

There  was  a  pushing  back  of  chairs, 
As  some  who  sat  unawares 

So  late,  now  heard  the  hours,  and  rose. 

With  anxious  softly-stepping  haste 
Our  mother  went  where  Margaret  lay, 
Fearing  the  sounds  o'erhead  —  should  they 

Have  broken  her  long  watched-for  rest ! 

She  stooped  an  instant,  calm,  and  turned  ; 

But  suddenly  turned  back  again  ; 

And  all  her  features  seemed  in  pain 
"With  woe,  and  her  eyes  gazed  and  yearned. 

For  my  part,  I  but  hid  my  face, 

And  held  my  breath,  and  spoke  no  word  : 
There  was  none  spoken  ;  but  I  heard 

The  silence  for  a  little  space. 

Our  mother  bowed  herself  and  wept : 
And  both  my  arms  fell,  and  I  said, 
"  God  knows  I  knew  that  she  was  dead." 

And  there,  all  white,  my  sister  slept. 

Then  kneeling,  upon  Christmas  morn 
A  little  after  twelve  o'clock 
We  said,  ere  the  first  quarter  struck, 

"  Christ's  blessing  on  the  newly  born  !  " 


120  A  NEW  YEAR'S  BURDEN. 


ASPECTA    MEDUSA. 

ANDROMEDA,  by  Perseus  saved  and  wed, 
Hankered  each  day  to  see  the  Gorgon's  head 
Till  o'er  a  fount  he  held  it,  bade  her  lean, 
And  mirrored  in  the  wave  was  safely  seen 
That  death  she  lived  by. 

Let  not  thine  eyes  know 
Any  forbidden  thing  itself,  although 
It  once  should  save  as  well  as  kill  :  but  be 
Its  shadow  upon  life  enough  for  thee. 


A  NEW-YEAR'S  BURDEN. 

ALONG  the  grass  sweet  airs  are  blown 

Our  way  this  day  in  Spring. 
Of  all  the  songs  that  we  have  known 
Now  which  one  shall  we  sing  ? 

Not  that,  my  love,  ah  no  !  — 
Not  this,  my  love  ?  why,  so  !  — 
Yet  both  were  ours,  but  hours  will  come  and  go. 

The  grove  is  all  a  pale  frail  mist, 

The  new  year  sucks  the  sun. 
Of  all  the  kisses  that  we  kissed 
Now  which  shall  be  the  one  ? 

Not  that,  my  love,  ah  no  !  — 
Not  this,  my  love  ? —  heigh-ho 
For  all  the  sweets  that  all  the  winds  can  blow  ! 

The  branches  cross  above  our  eyes, 

The  skies  are  in  a  net  : 
And  what's  the  thing  beneath  the  skies 
We  two  would  most  forget  ? 

Not  birth,  my  love,  no,  no, — 
Not  death,  my  love,  no,  no, — 
The  love  once  ours,  but  ours  long  hours  ago. 


EVEN  SO. 


EVEN    SO. 

So  it  is,  my  dear. 

All  such  things  touch  secret  strings 
For  heavy  hearts  to  hear. 
So  it  is,  my  dear. 

Very  like  indeed  : 
Sea  and  sky,  afar,  on  high, 
Sand  and  strewn  seaweed, — 

Very  like  indeed. 

But  the  sea  stands  spread 
As  one  wall  with  the  flat  skies, 
Where  the  lean  black  craft  like  flies 

Seem  well-nigh  stagnated, 

Soon  to  drop  off  dead. 

Seemed  it  so  to  us 

When  I  was  thine  and  thou  wast  mine, 
And  all  these  things  were  thus, 
But  all  our  world  in  us  ? 

Could  we  be  so  now  ? 
Not  if  all  beneath  heaven's  pall 
Lay  dead  but  I  and  thou, 
Could  we  be  so  now  ! 


AN  OLD  SONG  ENDED. 

"  How  should  I  your  true  love  know 

From  another  one  ?  " 
"  .By  his  cockle-hat  and  staff 

And  his  sandal-shoon," 


122  DOWN  STREAM. 

"  And  what  signs  have  told  you  now 
That  he  hastens  home  ?  " 

"  Lo  !  the  Spring  is  nearly  gone, 
He  is  nearly  come." 

"  For  a  token  is  there  naught, 
Say,  that  he  should  bring  ?  " 

"  He  will  bear  a  ring  I  gave 
And  another  ring." 

"  How  mav  I,  when  he  shall  ask, 
Tell  him  who  lies  there  ?  " 

"Nay,  but  leave  my  face  unveiled 
And  unbound  my  hair." 

"  Can  you  say  to  me  some  word 
I  shall  say  to  him  ?  " 

"Say  I'm  looking  in  his  eyes 
Though  my  eyes  are  dim." 


DOWN  STREAM. 

BETWEEN  Holmscote  and  Hurstcote 

The  river-reaches  wind, 
The  whispering  trees  accept  the  breeze, 

The  ripple's  cool  and  kind  : 
With  love  low-whispered  'twixt  the  shores, 

With  rippling  laughters  gay, 
With  white  arms  bared  to  ply  the  oars, 

On  last  year's  first  of  May. 

Between  Holmscote  and  Hurstcote 
The  river's  brimmed  with  rain, 

Through  close-met  banks  and  parted  banks 
Now  near  now  far  again  : 

With  parting  tears  caressed  to  smiles, 


DOWN  STREAM.  123 

With  meeting  promised  soon, 
With  every  sweet  vow  that  beguiles, 
On  last  year's  first  of  June. 

Between  Holmscote  and  Hurstcote 

The  river's  flecked  with  foam, 
'Neath  shuddering  clouds  that  hang  in  shrouds 

And  lost  winds  wild  for  home  : 
With  infant  wailings  at  the  breast, 

With  homeless  steps  astray, 
With  wanderings  shuddering  tow'rds  one  rest 

On  this  year's  first  of  May. 

Between  Holmscote  and  Hurstcote 

The  summer  river  flows 
With  doubled  flight  of  moons  by  night 

And  lilies'  deep  repose  : 
With  lo  !  beneath  the  moon's  white  stare 

A  white  face  not  the  moon, 
With  lilies  meshed  in  tangled  hair, 

On  this  year's  first  of  June. 

Between  Holmscote  and  Hurstcote 

A  troth  was  given  and  riven, 
From  heart's  trust  grew  one  life  to  two, 

Two  lost  lives  cry  to  Heaven  : 
With  banks  spread  calm  to  meet  the  sky, 

With  meadows  newly  mowed, 
The  harvest-paths  of  glad  July, 

The  sweet  school-children's  road. 


124  WELLING  TON '  S  FUNERAL. 

WELLINGTON'S  FUNERAL. 

18th  November,  1852. 

"  VICTORY  !  " 

So  once  more  the  cry  must  be. 
Duteous  mourning  we  fulfill 
In  God's  name  ;  but  by  God's  will, 
Doubt  not,  the  last  word  is  still 

"  Victory  !  " 

Funeral, 

In  the  music  round  this  pall, 
Solemn  grief  yields  earth  to  earth  ; 
But  what  tones  of  solemn  mirth 
In  the  pageant  of  new  birth 

Rise  and  fall  ? 

For  indeed, 

If  our  eyes  were  opened, 
Who  shall  say  what  escort  floats 
Here,  which  breath  nor  gleam  denotes,- 
Fiery  horses,  chariots 

Fire-footed  ? 

Trumpeter, 

Even  thy  call  he  may  not  hear ; 
Long-known  voice  for  ever  past, 
Till  with  one  more  trumpet-blast 
God's  assuring  word  at  last 

Reach  his  ear. 

Multitude, 

Hold  your  breath  in  reverent  mood  : 
For  while  earth's  whole  kindred  stand 
Mute  even  thus  on  either  hand, 
This  soul's  labor  shall  be  scann'd 

And  found  good, 


WELLIXG  TOX  ~s  FUXERAL 

Cherubim, 

Lift  ye  not  even  now  your  hymn  ? 
Lo  !  once  lent  for  human  lack, 
Michael's  sword  is  rendered  back. 
Thrills  not  now  the  starry  track, 

Seraphim  ? 

Gabriel, 

Since  the  gift  of  thine  "  All  hail !  " 
Out  of  heaven  no  time  hath  brought 
Gift  with  fuller  blessing  fraught 
Than  the  peace  which  this  man  wrought 

Passing  well. 

O 

Be  no  word 

Raised  of  bloodshed  Christ-abhorr'd. 
Say  :  "  'Twas  thus  in  His  decrees 
Who  himself,  the  Prince  of  Peace, 
For  his  harvest's  high  increase 

Sent  a  sword." 

Veterans, 

He  by  whom  the  neck  of  France 
Then  was  given  unto  your  heel, 
Timely  sought,  may  lend  as  well 
To  your  sons  his  terrible 

Countenance. 

Waterloo  ! 

As  the  last  grave  must  renew, 
Ere  fresh  death,  the  banshee-strain, — 
So  methinks  upon  thy  plain 
Falls  some  presage  in  the  rain, 

In  the  dew. 

And  O  thou, 

Watching  with  an  exile's  brow 
Unappeased,  o'er  death's  dumb  flood  :  — 
Lo  !  the  saving  strength  of  God 
In  some  new  heart's  English  blood 

Slumbers  now. 


126  WORLD'S  WORTH. 

Emperor, 

Is  this  all  thy  work  was  for  ?  — 
Thus  to  see  thy  self -sought  aim, 
Yea  thy  titles,  yea  thy  name, 
In  another's  shame,  to  shame 

Bandied  o'er  ?  * 

Wellington, 

Thy  great  work  is  but  begun. 
With  quick  seed  his  end  is  rife 
Whose  long  tale  of  conquering  strife 
Shows  no  triumph  like  his  life 

Lost  and  won. 


WORLD'S  WORTH. 

'Tis  of  the  Father  Hilary. 

He  strove,  but  could  not  pray  ;  so  took 

The  steep-coiled  stair,  where  his  feet  shook 
A  sad  blind  echo.     Ever  up 

He  toiled.     'Twas  a  sick  sway  of  air 

That  autumn  noon  within  the  stair, 
As  dizzy  as  a  turning  cup. 

His  brain  benumbed  him,  void  and  thin  ; 

He  shut  his  eyes  and  felt  it  spin  ; 

The  obscure  deafness  hemmed  him  in. 
He  said  :  "  O  world,  what  world  for  me  ?  " 

He  leaned  unto  the  balcony 

Where  the  chime  keeps  the  night  and  day  ; 

It  hurt  his  brain,  he  could  not  pray. 
He  had  his  face  upon  the  stone  : 

Deep  'twixt  the  narrow  shafts,  his  eye 

Passed  all  the  roofs  to  the  stark  sky, 
Swept  with  no  wing,  with  wind  alone. 

*  Date  of  the  Coup  d'  fitat :  2nd  December,  1851. 


THE  BRIDE'S' PRELUDE.  127 

Close  to  his  feet  the  sky  did  shake 
With  wind  in  pools  that  the  rains  make ; 
The  ripple  set  his  eyes  to  ache. 
He  said  :  "  O  world,  what  world  for  me?" 

He  stood  within  the  mystery 

Girding  God's  blessed  Eucharist : 
The  organ  and  the  chant  had  ceas'd. 

The  last  words  paused  against  his  ear 
Said  from  the  altar  :  drawn  round  him 
The  gathering  rest  was  dumb  and  dim. 

And  now  the  sacring-bell  rang  clear 

And  ceased  ;  and  all  was  awe, —  the  breath 
Of  God  in  man  that  warranteth 
The  inmost  utmost  things  of  faith. 

He  said  :  "  O  God,  my  world  in  thee  ! " 


THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE. 

"  SISTER,"  said  busy  Amelotte 

To  listless  Aloyse  ; 

"Along  your  wedding-road  the  wheat 
Bends  as  to  hear  your  horse's  feet, 
And  the  noonday  stands  still  for  heat." 

Amelotte  laughed  into  the  air 

With  eyes  that  sought  the  sun  : 
But  where  the  walls  in  long  brocade 
Were  screened,  as  one  who  is  afraid 
Sat  Aloyse  within  the  shade. 

And  even  in  shade  was  gleam  enough 

To  shut  out  full  repose 
From  the  bride's  'tiring-chamber,  which. 
Was  like  the  inner  altar-niche 
Whose  dimness  worship  has  made  rich. 


128  THE  BklDfrS  PRELUDE. 

Within  the  window's  heaped  recess 
The  light  was  counterchanged 
In  blent  reflexes  manifold 
From  perfume-caskets  of  wrought  gold 
And  gems  the  bride's  hair  could  not  hold 

All  thrust  together  :  and  with  these 
A  slim-curved  lute,  which  now, 
At  Amelotte's  sudden  passing  there, 
Was  swept  in  somewise  unaware, 
And  shook  to  music  the  close  air. 

Against  the  haloed  lattice-panes 

The  bridesmaid  sunned  her  breast, 
Then-  to  the  glass  turned  tall  and  free, 
And  braced  and  shifted  daintily 
Her  loin-belt  through  her  cote-hardie. 

The  belt  was  silver,  and  the  clasp 

Of  lozenged  arm-bearings  ; 
A  world  of  mirrored  tints  minute 
The  rippling  sunshine  wrought  into  't, 
That  flushed  her  hand  and  warmed  her  foot. 

At  least  an  hour  had  Aloyse, — 

Her  jewels  in  her  hair, — 
Her  white  gown,  as  became  a  bride, 
Quartered  in  silver  at  each  side, — 
Sat  thus  aloof,  as  if  to  hide. 

Over  her  bosom,  that  lay  still, 

The  vest  was  rich  in  grain, 
With  close  pearls  wholly  overset : 
Around  her  throat  the  fastenings  met 
Of  chevesayle  and  mantelet. 

Her  arms  were  laid  along  her  lap 

With  the  hands  open  ;  life 
Itself  did  seem  at  fault  in  her  : 
Beneath  the  drooping  brows,  the  stir 
Of  thought  made  noonday  heavier. 


THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE.  123 

Long  sat  she  silent  ;  and  then  raised 

Her  head,  with  such  a  gasp 
As  while  she  summoned  breath  to  speak 
Fanned  high  that  furnace  in  the  cheek 
But  sucked  the  heart-pulse  cold  and  weak. 

(Oh  gather  round  her  now,  all  ye 

Past  seasons  of  her  fear, — 
Sick  springs,  and  summers  deadly  cold  ! 
To  flight  your  hovering  wings  unfold, 
For  now  your  secret  shall  be  told. 

Ye  many  sunlights,  barbed  with  darts 

Of  dread  detecting  flame, — 
Gaunt  moonlights  that  like  sentinels 
Went  past  with  iron  clank  of  bells, — 
Draw  round  and  render  up  your  spells  !  ) 

"  Sister,"  said  Aloyse,  "  I  had 

A  thing  to  tell  thee  of 
Long  since,  and  could  not.     But  do  thou 
Kneel  first  in  prayer  awhile,  and  bow 
Thine  heart,  and  I  will  tell  thee  now." 

Amelotte  wondered  with  her  eyes  ; 

But  her  heart  said  in  her  : 
"  Dear  Aloyse  would  have  me  pray 
Because  the  awe  she  feels  to-day 
Must  need  more  prayers  than  she  can  say." 

So  Amelotte  put  by  the  folds 
That  covered  up  her  feet, 
And  knelt, —  beyond  the  arras'd  gloom 
And  the  hot  window's  dull  perfume, — 
Where  day  was  stillest  in  the  room. 

"  Queen  Mary,  hear,"  she  said,  "  and  say 

To  Jesus  the  Lord  Christ, 
This  bride's  new  joy,  which  He  confers, 
New  joy  to  many  ministers, 
And  many  griefs  are  bound  in  hers." 
9 


130  THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE. 

The  bride  turned  in  her  chair,  and  hid 

Her  face  against  the  back, 
And  took  her  pearl-girt  elbows  in 
Her  hands,  and  could  not  yet  begin, 
But  shuddering,  uttered,  "  Urscelyn  !  " 

Most  weak  she  was  ;  for  as  she  pressed 

Her  hand  against  her  throat, 
Along  the  arras  she  let  trail 
Her  face,  as  if  all  heart  did  fail, 
And  sat  with  shut  eyes,  dumb  and  pale. 

Amelotte  still  was  on  her  knees 
As  she  had  kneeled  to  pray. 
Deeming  her  sister  swooned,  she  thought, 
At  first,  some  succor  to  have  brought ; 
But  Aloyse  rocked,  as  one  distraught. 

She  would  have  pushed  the  lattice  wide 

To  gain  what  breeze  might  be  ; 
But  marking  that  no  leaf  once  beat 
The  outside  casement,  it  seemed  meet 
Not  to  bring  in  more  scent  and  heat. 

So  she  said  only  :  "  Aloyse, 

Sister,  when  happened  it 
At  any  time  that  the  bride  came 
To  ill,  or  spoke  in  fear  of  shame, 
When  speaking  first  the  bridegroom's  name  ?  " 

A  bird  had  out  its  song  and  ceased 

Ere  the  bride  spoke.     As  length 
She  said  :  "  The  name  is  as  the  thing  :  — 
Sin  hath  no  second  christening, 
And  shame  is  all  that  shame  can  bring. 

"  In  divers  places  many  an  while 
I  would  have  told  thee  this  ; 
But  faintness  took  me,  or  a  fit 
Like  fever.     God  would  not  permit 
That  I  should  change  thine  eyes  with  it. 


THE  BRIDE '  S  PREL  UDE.  131 

"  Yet  once  I  spoke,  hadst  thou  but  heard  :  — 

That  time  we  wandered  out 
All  the  sun's  hours,  but  missed  our  way 
When  evening  darkened,  and  so  lay 
The  whole  night  covered  up  in  hay. 

"At  last  my  face  was  hidden  :  so, 

Having  God's  hint,  I  paused 
Not  long  ;  but  drew  myself  more  near 
Where  thou  wast  laid,  and  shook  off  fear, 
And  whispered  quick  into  thine  ear 

"  Something  of  the  whole  tale.     At  first 

I  lay  and  bit  my  hair 
For  the  sore  silence  thou  didst  keep  : 
Till,  as  thy  breath  came  long  and  deep, 
I  knew  that  thou  hadst  been  asleep. 

"  The  moon  was  covered,  but  the  stars 

Lasted  till  morning  broke. 
Awake,  thou  told'st  me  that  thy  dream 
Had  been  of  me, —  that  all  did  seem 
At  jar, —  but  that  it  was  a  dream. 

"  I  knew  God's  hand  and  might  not  speak. 

After  that  night  I  kept 
Silence  and  let  the  record  swell : 
Till  now  there  is  much  more  to  tell 
Which  must  be  told  out  ill  or  well." 

She  paused  then,  weary,  with  dry  lips 

Apart.     From  the  outside 
By  fits  there  boomed  a  dull  report 
From  where  i'  the  hanging  tennis-court 
The  bridegroom's  retinue  made  sport. 

The  room  lay  still  in  dusty  glare, 
Having  no  sound  through  it 
Except  the  chirp  of  a  caged  bird 
That  came  and  ceased  :  and  if  she  stirred, 
Amelotte's  raiment  could  be  heard. 


132  THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE. 

Quoth  Amelotte  :     "  The  night  this  chanced 

Was  a  late  summer  night 
Last  year  !     What  secret,  for  Christ's  love, 
Keep'st  thou  since  then?     Mary  above  ! 
What  thing  is  this  thou  speakest  of  ? 

"  Mary  and  Christ !     Lest  when  'tis  told 

I  should  be  prone  to  wrath, — 
This  prayer  beforehand  !     How  she  errs 
Soe'er,  take  count  of  grief  like  hers, 
Whereof  the  days  are  turned  to  years  ! " 

She  bowed  her  neck,  and  having  said, 

Kept  on  her  knees  to  hear  ; 
And  then,  because  strained  thought  demands 
Quiet  before  it  understands. 
Darkened  her  eyesight  with  her  hands. 

So  when  at  last  her  sister  spoke, 

She  did  not  see  the  pain 
Orthe  mouth  nor  the  ashamed  eyes, 
But  marked  the  breath  that  came  in  sighs 
And  the  half-pausing  for  replies. 

This  was  the  bride's  sad  prelude-strain  :  — 

"  I'  the  convent  where  a  girl 

I  dwelt  till  near  my  womanhood, 

I  had  but  preachings  of  the  rood 

And  Aves  told  in  solitude 

"To  spend  my  heart  on  :  and  my  hand 

Had  but  the  weary  skill 
To  eke  out  upon  silken  cloth 
Christ's  visage,  or  the  long  bright  growth 
Of  Mary's  hair,  or  Satan  wroth. 

"  So  when  at  last  I  went,  and  thou, 

A  child  not  known  before, 
Didst  come  to  take  the  place  I  left, 
My  limbs,  after  such  lifelong  theft 
Of  life,  could  be  but  little  deft 


THE  BRIDE  'S  PREL  UDE.  133 

"In  all  that  ministers  delight 

To  noble  women  :  I 

Had  learned  no  word  of  youth's  discourse, 
Nor  gazed  on  games  of  warriors, 
Nor  trained  a  hound,  nor  ruled  a  horse. 

"  Besides,  the  daily  life  i'  the  sun 

Made  me  at  first  hold  back. 
To  thee  this  came  at  once  ;  to  me 
It  crept  with  pauses  timidly  ; 
I  am  not  blithe  and  strong  like  thee. 

"  Yet  my  feet  liked  the  dances  well, 

The  songs  went  to  my  voice, 
The  music  made  me  shake  and  weep  ; 
And  often,  all  night  long,  my  sleep 
Gave  dreams  I  had  been  fain  to  keep. 

"  But  though  I  loved  not  holy  things, 

To  hear  them  scorned  brought  pain, — 
They  were  my  childhood  ;  and  these  dames 
Were  merely  perjured  in  saints'  names 
.And  fixed  upon  saints'  days  for  games. 

"  And  sometimes  when  my  father  rode 

To  hunt  with  his  loud  friends, 
I  dared  not  bring  him  to  be  quaff'd, 
As  my  wont  was,  his  stirrup-draught, 
Because  they  jested  so  and  laugh'd. 

"  At  last  one  day  my  brothers  said, 

'  The  girl  must  not  grow  thus, — - 
Bring  her  a  jennet, —  she  shall  ride.' 
They  helped  my  mounting,  and  I  tried 
To  laugh  with  them  and  keep  their  side. 

"  But  breaks  were  rough  and  bents  were  steep 

Upon  our  path  that  day  : 
My  palfrey  threw  me  ;  and  I  went 
Upon  men's  shoulders  home,  sore  spent, 
While  the  chase  followed  up  the  scent. 


134  THE  BRIDE  'S  PREL  UDE. 

"  Our  shrift-father  (and  he  alone 

Of  all  the  household  there 
Had  skill  in  leechcraft,)  was  away 
"When  I  reached  home.     I  tossed,  and  lay 
Sullen  with  anguish  the  whole  day. 

"  For  the  day  passed  ere  some  one  brought 

To  mind  that  in  the  hunt 
Rode  a  young  lord  she  named,  long  bred 
Among  the  priests,  whose  art  (she  said) 
Might  chance  to  stand  me  in  much  stead. 

"I  bade  them  seek  and  summon  him  : 

But  long  ere  this,  the  chase 
Had  scattered,  and  he  was  not  found. 
I  lay  in  the  same  weary  stound, 
Therefore,  until  the  night  came  round. 

"  It  was  dead  night  and  near  on  twelve 

When  the  horse-tramp  at  length 
Beat  up  the  echoes  of  the  court  : 
By  then,  my  feverish  breath  was  short 
With  pain  the  sense  could  scarce  support. 

"  My  fond  nurse  sitting  near  my  feet 
Rose  softly, —  her  lamp's  flame 
Held  in  her  hand,  lest  it  should  make 
My  heated  lids,  in  passing,  ache  ; 
And  she  passed  softly,  for  my  sake. 

"  Returning  soon,  she  brought  the  youth 

They  spoke  of.     Meek  he  seemed, 
But  good  knights  held  him  of  stout  heart. 
He  was  akin  to  us  in  part, 
And  bore  our  shield,  but  barred  athwart. 

"  I  now  remembered  to  have  seen 

His  face,  and  heard  him  praised 
For  letter-lore  and  medicine, 
Seeing  his  youth  was  nurtured  in 
Priests'  knowledge,  as  mine  own  had  been." 


THE  BRIDE  'S  PRELUDE.  135 

The  bride's  voice  did  not  weaken  here, 

Yet  by  her  sudden  pause 
She  seemed  to  look  for  questioning  ; 
Or  else  (small  need  though)  'twas  to  bring 
"Well  to  her  mind  the  bygone  thing. 

Her  thought,  long  stagnant,  stirred  by  speech, 

Gave  her  a  sick  recoil ; 
As,  dip  thy  fingers  though  the  green 
That  masks  a  pool, —  where  they  have  been 
The  naked  depth  is  black  between. 

Amelotte  kept  her  knees  ;  her  face 

Was  shut  within  her  hands, 
As  it  had  been  throughout  the  tale  ; 
Her  forehead's  whiteness  might  avail 
Nothing  to  say  if  she  were  pale. 

Although  the  lattice  had  dropped  loose, 

There  was  no  wind  ;  the  heat 
Being  so  at  rest  that  Amelotte 
Heard  far  beneath  the  plunge  and  float 
Of  a  hound  swimming  in  the  moat. 

Some  minutes  since,  two  rooks  had  toiled 

Home  to  the  nests  that  crowned 
Ancestral  ash-trees.     Through  the  glare 
Beating  again,  they  seemed  to  tear 
With  that  thick  caw  the  woof  o'  the  air. 

But  else,  'twas  at  the  dead  of  noon 

Absolute  silence  ;  all, 

From  the  raised  bridge  and  guarded  sconce 
To  green -clad  places  of  pleasaunce 
Where  the  long  lake  was  white  with  swans. 

Amelotte  spoke  not  any  Avord 

Nor  moved  she  once  ;  but  felt 
Between  her  hands  in  narrow  space 
Her  own  hot  breath  upon  her  face, 
And  kept  in  silence  the  same  place. 


136  THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE. 

Aloyse  did  not  hear  at  all 

The  sounds  without.     She  heard 
The  inward  voice  (past  help  obey'd) 
Which  might  not  slacken  nor  be  stay'd, 
But  urged  her  till  the  whole  were  said. 

Therefore  she  spoke  again  :  "  That  night 

But  little  could  be  done  : 
My  foot,  held  in  my  nurse's  hands, 
He  swathed  up  heedfully  in  bands, 
And  for  my  rest  gave  close  commands. 

"  I  slept  till  noon,  but  an  ill  sleep 

Of  dreams  :  through  all  that  day 
My  side  was  stiff  and  caught  the  breath ; 
Next  day,  such  pain  as  sickeneth 
Took  me,  and  I  was  nigh  to  death. 

"  Life  strove,  Death  claimed  me  for  his  own 

Through  days  and  nights  :  but  now 
'Twas  the  good  father  tended  me, 
Having  returned.     Still  I  did  see 
The  youth  I  spoke  of  constantly. 

"For  he  would  with  my  brothers  come 

To  stay  beside  my  couch, 
And  fix  my  eyes  against  his  own, 
Noting  my  pulse  ;  or  else  alone, 
To  sit  at  gaze  while  I  made  moan. 

"  (Some  nights  I  knew  he  kept  the  watch, 

Because  my  women  laid 
The  rushes  thick  for  his  steel  shoes.) 
Through  many  days  this  pain  did  use 
The  life  God  would  not  let  me  lose. 

"  At  length,  with  my  good  nurse  to  aid, 

I  could  walk  forth  again  : 
And  still,  as  one  who  broods  or  grieves, 
At  noons  I'd  meet  him  and  at  eves, 
With  idle  feet  that  drove  the  leaves. 


THE  BRIDE  'S  PREL  UDE.  137 

"  The  day  when  I  first  walked  alone 
Was  thinned  in  grass  and  leaf, 
And  yet  a  goodly  day  o'  the  year  : 
The  last  bird's  cry  upon  mine  ear 
Left  my  brain  weak,  it  was  so  clear. 

"  The  tears  were  sharp  within  mine  eyes  ; 

I  sat  down,  being  glad, 
And  wept ;  but  stayed  the  sudden  flow 
Anon,  for  footsteps  that  fell  slow  ; 
'Twas  that  youth  passed  me,  bowing  low. 

"  He  passed  me  without  speech  ;  but  when, 

At  least  an  hour  gone  by, 
Rethreading  the  same  covert,  he 
Saw  I  was  still  beneath  the  tree, 
He  spoke  and  sat  him  down  with  me. 

"  Little  we  said  ;  nor  one  heart  heard 

Even  what  was  said  within  ; 
And,  faltering  some  farewell,  I  soon 
Rose  up  ;  but  then  i'  the  autumn  noon 
My  feeble  brain  whirled  like  a  swoon. 

"  He  made  me  sit.     *  Cousin,  I  grieve 

Your  sickness  stays  by  you.' 
'  I  would,'  said  I,  '  that  you  did  err 
So  grieving.     I  am  wearier 
Than  death,  of  the  sickening  dying  year.' 

"  He  answered  :  '  If  your  weariness 

Accepts  a  remedy, 
I  hold  one  and  can  give  it  you.' 
I  gazed  :  '  What  ministers  thereto, 
Be  sure,'  I  said,  '  that  I  will  do.' 

"  He  went  on  quickly :  —  'Twas  a  cure 

He  had  not  ever  named 
Unto  our  kin,  lest  they  should  stint 
Their  favor,  for  some  foolish  hint 
Of  wizardry  or  magic  in't : 


138  THE  BRIDE  'S  PRELUDE. 

"  But  that  if  lie  were  let  to  come 

Within  my  bower  that  night, 
(My  women  still  attending  me, 
He  said,  while  he  remain'd  there,)  he 
Could  teach  me  the  cure  privily. 

"  I  bade  him  come  that  night.     He  came  ; 

But  little  in  his  speech 
Was  cure  or  sickness  spoken  of, 
Only  a  passionate  fierce  love 
That  clamored  upon  God  above. 

"  My  women  wondered,  leaning  close 

Aloof.     At  mine  own  heart 
I  think  great  wonder  was  not  stirr'd. 
I  dared  not.  listen,  yet  I  heard 
His  tangled  speech,  word  within  word. 

"He  craved  my  pardon  first, —  all  else 

Wild  tumult.     In  the  end 
He  remained  silent  at  my  feet 
Fumbling  the  rushes.  Strange  quick  heat 
Made  all  the  blood  of  my  life  meet. 

"And  lo  !  I  loved  him.  I  but  said, 

If  he  would  leave  me  then, 
His  hope  some  future  might  forecast. 
His  hot  lips  stung  my  hand  :  at  last 
My  damsels  led  him  forth  in  haste." 

The  bride  took  breath  to  pause  ;  and  turned 

Her  gaze  where  Amelotte 
Knelt, —  the  gold  hair  upon  her  back 
Quite  still  in  all  its  threads, —  the  track 
Of  her  still  shadow  sharp  and  black. 

That  listening  without  sight  had  grown 

To  stealthy  dread  ;  and  now 
That  the  one  sound  she  had  to  mark 
Left  her  alone  too,  she  was  stark 
Afraid,  as  children  in  the  dark, 


THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE.  139 

Her  fingers  felt  her  temples  beat ; 
Then  came  that  brain-sickness 
Which  thinks  to  scream,  and  murmureth  ; 
And  pent  between  her  hands,  the  breath 
Was  damp  against  her  face  like  death. 

Her  arms  both  fell  at  once  ;  but  when 

She  gasped  upon  the  light, 
Her  sense  returned.  She  would  have  pray'd 
To  change  whatever  words  still  stay'd 
Behind,  but  felt  there  was  no  aid. 

So  she  rose  up,  and  having  gone 

Within  the  window's  arch 
Once  more,  she  sat  there,  all  intent 
On  torturing  doubts,  and  once  more  bent 
To  hear,  in  mute  bewilderment. 

But  Aloyse  still  paused.  Thereon 

Amelotte  gathered  voice 
In  somewise  from  the  torpid  fear 
Coiled  round  her  spirit.     Low  but  clear 
She  said  :  "  Speak,  sister  ;  for  I  hear." 

But  Aloyse  threw  up  her  neck 

And  called  the  name  of  God  :  — 
"  Judge,  God,  'twixt  her  and  me  to-day  ! 
She  knows  how  hard  this  is  to  say, 
Yet  will  not  have  one  word  away." 

Her  sister  was  quite  silent.  Then 

Afresh  :  — "  Not  she,  dear  Lord  ! 
Thou  be  my  judge,  on  Thee  I  call  !  " 
She  ceased,  —  her  forehead  smote  the  wall : 
"  Is  there  a  God,"  she  said,  "  at  all  ?  " 

Amelotte  shuddered  at  the  soul, 

But  did  not  speak.  The  pause 
Was  long  this  time.     At  length  the  bride 
Pressed  her  hand  hard  against  her  side, 
And  trembling  between  shame  and  pride 


140  THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE. 

Said  by  fierce  effort  :  "  From  that  night 

Often  at  nights  we  met : 
That  night,  his  passion  could  but  rave; 
The  next,  what  grace  his  lips  did  crave 
I  knew  not,  but  I  know  I  gave." 

Where  Amelotte  was  sitting,  all 

The  light  and  warmth  of  day 
Were  so  upon  her  without  shade, 
That  the  thing  seemed  by  sunshine  made 
Most  foul  and  wanton  to  be  said. 

•    She  would  have  questioned  more,  and  known 

The  whole  truth  at  its  worst, 
But  held  her  silent,  in  mere  shame 
Of  day.     'Twas  only  these  words  came  :  — 
"  Sister,  thou  hast  not  said  his  name." 

"  Sister,"  quoth  Aloyse,  "  thou  knowV, 

His  name.     I  said  that  he 
Was  in  a  manner  of  our  kin. 
Waiting  the  title  he  might  win, 
They  called  him  the  Lord  Urscelyn." 

The  bridegroom's  name,  to  Amelotte 

Daily  familiar, —  heard 
Thus  in  this  dreadful  history, — 
Was  dreadful  to  her  ;  as  might  be 
Thine  own  voice  speaking  unto  thee. 

The  day's  mid-hour  was  almost  full ; 

Upon  the  dial-plate 
The  angel's  sword  stood  near  at  One. 
An  hour's  remaining  yet  ;  the  sun 
Will  not  decrease  till  all  be  done. 

Through  the  bride's  lattice  there  crept  in 

At  whiles  (from  where  the  train 
Of  minstrels,  till  the  marriage-call, 
Loitered  at  windows  of  the  Avail,) 
Stray  lute-notes,  sweet  and  musical. 


THE  BRIDE  'S  PRELUDE.  141 

They  clung  in  the  green  growths  and  moss 

Against  the  outside  stone  ; 
Low  like  dirge-wail  or  requiem 
They  murmured,  lost  'twixt  leaf  and  stem  : 
There  was  no  wind  to  carry  them. 

Amelotte  gathered  herself  back 

Into  the  wide  recess 
That  the  sun  flooded  :  it  o'erspread 
Like  flame  the  hair  upon  her  head 
And  fringed  her  face  with  burning  red. 

All  things  seemed  shaken  and  at  change  : 

A  silent  place  o'  the  hills 
She  knew,  into  her  spirit  came  : 
Within  herself  she  said  its  name 
And  wondered  was  it  still  the  same. 

The  bride  (whom  silence  goaded)  now 

Said  strongly, —  her  despair 
By  stubborn  will  kept  underneath  :  — 
"  Sister,  'twere  well  thou  didst  not  breathe 
That  curse  of  thine.     Give  me  my  wreath." 

"  Sister,"  said  Amelotte,  "  abide 

In  peace.     Be  God  thy  judge, 
As  thou  hast  said  —  not  I.     For  me, 
I  merely  will  thank  God  that  he 
Whom  thou  hast  loved  loveth  thee." 

Then  Aloyse  lay  back,  and  laughed 

With  wan  lips  bitterly, 
Saying,  "  Nay,  thank  thou  God  for  this, — 
That  never  any  soul  like  his 
Shall  have  its  portion  where  love  is." 

Weary  of  wonder,  Amelotte 

Sat  silent  :  she  would  ask 
No  more,  though  all  was  unexplained  : 
She  was  too  weak  ;  the  ache  still  pained 
Her  eyes, —  her  forehead's  pulse  remained. 
10 


142  THE  Bit  IDE  '$  PR  EL  UDE. 

The  silence  lengthened.     Aloyse 

Was  fain  to  turn  her  face 
Apart,  to  where  the  arras  told 
Two  Testaments,  the  New  and  Old 
In  shapes  and  meanings  manifold. 

One  solace  that  was  gained,  she  hid. 

Her  sister,  from  whose  curse 
Her  heart  recoiled,  had  blessed  instead  : 
Yet  would  not  her  pride  have  it  said 
How  much  the  blessing  comforted. 

Only,  on  looking  round  again 

After  some  while,  the  face 
Which  from  the  arras  turned  away 
Was  more  at  peace  and  less  at  bay 
With  shame  than  it  had  been  that  day. 

She  spoke  right  on,  as  if  no  pause 

Had  come  between  her  speech  : 
"  That  year  from  warmth  grew  bleak  and  pass'd; " 
She  said  ;  "  the  days  from  first  to  last 
How  slow, —  woe's  me  !  the  nights  how  fast !  " 

"  From  first  to  last  it  was  not  known  : 

My  nurse,  and  of  my  train 
Some  four  or  five,  alone  could  tell 
What  terror  kept  inscrutable  : 
There  was  good  need  to  guard  it  well. 

"  Not  the  guilt  only  made  the  shame, 

But  he  was  without  land 
And  born  amiss.     He  had  but  come 
To  train  his  youth  here  at  our  home 
And,  being  man,  depart  therefrom. 

"  Of  the  whole  time  each  single  day 
Brought  fear  and  great  unrest  : 
It  seemed  that  all  would  not  avail 
Some  once, —  that  my  close  watch  would  fail, 
And  some  sign,  somehow,  tell  the  tale. 


THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE.  143 

"  The  noble  maidens  that  I  knew, 

My  fellows,  oftentimes 
Midway  in  talk  or  sport,  would  look 
A  wonder  which  my  fears  mistook, 
To  see  how  I  turned  faint  and  shook. 

"  They  had  a  game  of  cards,  where  each 

By  painted  arms  might  find 
What  knight  she  should  be  given  to. 
Ever  with  trembling  hand  I  threw 
Lest  I  should  learn  the  thing  I  knew. 

"  And  once  it  came.     And  Aure  d'Honvaulx 

Held  up  the  bended  shield 
And  laughed  :  '  Gramercy  for  our  share  !  — 
If  to  our  bridal  we  but  fare 
To  smutch  the  blazon  that  we  bear  ! ' 

"  But  proud  Denise  de  Villenbois 

Kissed  me,  and  gave  her  wench 

The  card  and  said  :  '  If  in  these  bowers 

You  women  play  at  paramours, 

You  must  not  mix  your  game  with  our.s.' 

"  And  one  upcast  it  from  her  hand  : 
'  Lo  !  see  how  high  he'll  soar  ! ' 
But  then  their  laugh  was  bitterest  ; 
For  the  wind  veered  at  fate's  behest 
And  blew  it  back  into  my  breast. 

"  Oh  !  if  I  met  him  in  the  day 

Or  heard  his  voice, —  at  meals 
Or  at  the  Mass  or  through  the  hall, — 
A  look  turned  towards  me  would  appall 
My  heart  by  seeming  to  know  all. 

"  Yet  I  grew  curious  of  my  shame, 
And  sometimes  in  the  church, 
On  hearing  such  a  sin  rebuked, 
Have  held  my  girdle-glass  unhooked 
To  see  how  such  a  woman  looked. 


144  'THE  BRIDE  'S  PREL  U£>E> 

"  But  if  at  night  he  did  not  come, 

I  lay  all  deadly  cold 
To  think  they  might  have  smitten  sore 
And  slain  him,  and  as  the  night  wore, 
His  corpse  be  lying  at  my  door. 

"  And  entering  or  going  forth, 

Our  proud  shield  o'er  the  gate 
Seemed  to  arraign  my  shrinking  eyes. 
With  tremors  and  imspoken  lies 
The  year  went  past  me  in  this  wise. 

"  About  the  spring  of  the  next  year 

An  ailing  fell  on  me  ; 
(I  had  been  stronger  till  the  spring  ;) 
'Twas  mine  old  sickness  gathering, 
I  thought  ;  but  'twas  another  thing. 

"  I  had  such  yearnings  as  brought  tears, 

And  a  wan  dizziness  : 
Motion,  like  feeling,  grew  intense  ; 
Sight  was  a  haunting  evidence 
And  sound  a  pang  that  snatched  the  sense. 

.  "It  now  was  hard  on  that  great  ill 
Which  lost  our  wealth  from  us 
And  all  our  lands.     Accursed  be 
The  peevish  fools  of  liberty 
Who  will  not  let  themselves  be  free ! 

"  The  prince  was  fled  into  the  west : 

A  price  was  on  his  blood, 
But  he  was  safe.     To  us  his  friends 
He  left  that  ruin  which  attends 
The  strife  against  God's  secret  ends. 

"  The  league  dropped  all  asunder, —  Lord, 

Gentle  and  serf.     Our  house 
Was  marked  to  fall.     And  a  day  came 
When  half  the  wealth  that  propped  our  name 
Went  from  us  in  a  wind  of  flame. 


THE  BRIDE 'S  PREL  UDE.  145 

"  Six  hours  I  lay  upon  the  wall 

And  saw  it  burn.     But  when 
It  clogged  the  day  in  a  black  bed 
Of  louring  vapor,  I  was  led 
Down  to  the  postern,  and  we  fled. 

"  But  ere  we  fled,  there  was  a  voice 

Which  I  heard  speak,  and  say 
That  many  of  our  friends,  to  shun 
Our  fate,  had  left  us  and  were  gone, 
And  that  Lord  Urscelyn  was  one. 

"  That  name,  as  was  its  wont,  made  sight 

And  hearing  whirl.     I  gave 
No  heed  but  only  to  the  name. 
I  held  my  senses,  dreading  them, 
And  was  at  strife  to  look  the  same. 

"  We  rode  and  rode.     As  the  speed  grew, 

The  growth  of  some  vague  curse 
Swarmed  in  my  brain.     It  seemed  to  me 
Numbed  by  the  swiftness,  but  would  be  — 
That  still  —  clear  knowledge  certainly. 

"  Night  lapsed.     At  dawn  the  sea  was  there 

And  the  sea-wind  :  afar 
The  ravening  surge  was  hoarse  and  loud, 
And  underneath  the  dim  dawn-cloud 
Each  stalking  wave  shook  like  a  shroud. 

"  From  my  drawn  litter  I  looked  out 

Unto  the  swarthy  sea, 

And  knew.     That  voice,  which  late  had  cross'd 
Mine  ears,  seemed  with  the  foam  uptoss'd  : 
I  knew  that  Urscelyn  was  lost. 

"  Then  I  spake  all  :  I  turned  on  one 

And  on  the  other,  and  spake  : 
My  curse  laughed  in  me  to  behold 
Their  eyes  :  I  sat   up,  stricken  cold, 
Mad  of  my  voice  till  all  was  told. 


146  THE  BRIDE 'S  PREL  UDE. 

"  Oh  !  of  my  brothers,  Hugues  was  mute, 

And  Gilles  was  wild  and  loud, 
And  Raoul  strained  abroad  his  face, 
As  if  his  gnashing  wrath  could  trace 
Even  there  the  prey  that  it  must  chase. 

"  And  round  me  murmured  all  our  train, 

Hoarse  as  the  hoarse- tongued  sea  ; 
Till  Hugues  from  silence  louring  woke, 
And  cried  :  "What  ails  the  foolish  folk? 
Know  ye  not  frenzy's  lightning-stroke  ?  " 

"  But  my  stern  father  came  to  them 

And  quelled  them  with  his  look, 
Silent  and  deadly  pale.     Anon 
I  knew  that  we  were  hastening  on, 
My  litter  closed  and  the  light  gone. 

"  And  I  remember  all  that  day 

The  barren  bitter  wind 
Without,  and  the  sea's  moaning  there 
That  I  first  moaned  with  unaware, 
And  when  I  knew,  shook  down  my  hair. 

"  Few  followed  us  or  faced  our  flight : 

Once  only  I  could  hear, 
Far  in  the  front,  loud  scornful  words, 
And  cries  I  knew  of  hostile  lords, 
And  crash  of  spears  and  grind  of  sword. 

"  It  was  soon  ended.     On  that  day 

Before  the  light  had  changed 
We  reached  our  refuge  ;  miles  of  rock 
Bulwarked  for  war;  whose  strength  might  mock 
Sky,  sea,  or  man,  to  storm  or  shock. 

"  Listless  and  feebly  conscious,  I 

Lay  far  within  the  night 
Awake.     The  many  pains  incurred 
That  day, —  the  whole,  said,  seen  or  heard, — 
Stayed  by  in  me  as  things  deferred. 


THE  BRIDE  'S  PREL  UDE.  14 

"Not  long.     At  dawn  I  slept.     In  dreams 

All  was  passed  through  afresh 
From  end  to  end.     As  the  morn  heaved 
Towards  noon,  I,  waking  sore  aggrieved, 
That  I  might  die,  cursed  God,  and  lived. 

"  Many  days  went,  and  I  saw  none 

Except  my  women.     They 
Calmed  their  wan  faces,  loving  me  ; 
And  when  they  wept,  lest  I  should  see, 
Would  chant  a  desolate  melody. 

"  Panic  unthreatened  shook  my  blood 

Each  sunset,  all  the  slow 
Subsiding  of  the  turbid  light. 
I  would  rise,  sister,  as  I  might, 
And  bathe  my  forehead  through  the  night 

"  To  elude  madness.     The  stark  walls 

Made  chill  the  mirk  :  and  when 
We  oped  our  curtains,  to  resume 
Sun-sickness  after  long  sick  gloom, 
The  withering  sea-wind  walked  the  room. 

"  Through  the  gaunt  windows  the  great  gales 

Bore  in  the  tattered  clumps 
Of  waif -weed  and  the  tamarisk-boughs  ; 
And  sea-mews,  'mid  the  storm's  carouse, 
Were  flung,  wild-clamoring,  in  the  house. 

"  My  hounds  I  had  not  ;  and  my  hawk, 

Which  they  had  saved  for  me, 
Wanting  the  sun  and  rain  to  beat 
His  wings,  soon  lay  with  gathered  feet ; 
And  my  flowers  faded,  lacking  heat. 

"  Such  still  were  griefs  :  for  grief  was  still 

A  separate  sense,  untouched 
Of  that  despair  which  had  become 
My  life.     Great  anguish  could  benumb 
My  soul, —  my  heart  was  quarrelsome. 


148  THE  BRIDE 'S  PREL  UDE. 

"  Time  crept.     Upon  a  day  at  length 

My  kinsfolk  sat  with  me  : 
That  which  they  asked  wras  bare  and  plain  : 
I  answered  :  the  whole  bitter  strain 
Was  again  said,  and  heard  again. 

"  Fierce  Baoul  snatched  his  sword,  and  turned 

The  point  against  my  breast. 
I  bared  it,  smiling  :  '  To  the  heart 
Strike  home,'  I  said  ;  '  another  dart 
Wreaks  hourly  there  a  deadlier  smart.' 

"  'Twas  then  my  sire  struck  down  the  sword, 

And  said  with  shaken  lips  : 
'  She  from  wrhom  all  of  you  receive 
Your  life,  so  smiled  ;  and  I  forgive.' 
Thus,  for  my  mother's  sake,  I  live. 

"  But  I,  a  mother  even  as  she, 

Turned  shuddering  to  the  wall : 
For  I  said  :  '  Great  God  !  and  what  would  I  do, 
When  to  the  sword,  with  the  thing  I  knew, 
I  offered  not  one  life  but  two  ! ' 

"  Then  I  fell  back  from  them,  and  lay 

Outwearied.     My  tired  sense 
Soon  filmed  and  settled,  and  like  stone 
I  slept ;  till  something  made  me  moan, 
And  I  woke  up  at  night  alone. 

"  I  woke  at  midnight,  cold  and  dazed  ; 

Because  I  found  myself 
Seated  upright,  with  bosom  bare, 
Upon  my  bed,  combing  my  hair, 
Ready  to  go,  I  knew  not  where. 

"  It  dawned  light  day, —  the  last  of  those 

Long  months  of  longing  days. 
That  noon,  the  change  was  wrought  on  me 
In  somewise, —  naught  to  hear  or  see, — 
Only  a  trance  and  agony." 


THE  BRIDE'S  PRELUDE.  149 

The  bride's  voice  failed  her,  from  no  will 

To  pause.     The  bridesmaid  leaned, 
And  where  the  window-panes  were  white, 
Looked  for  the  day  :  she  knew  not  quite 
If  there  were  either  day  or  night. 

It  seemed  to  Aloyse  that  the  whole 

Day's  weight  lay  back  on  her 
Like  lead.     The  hours  that  did  remain 
Beat  their  dry  wings  upon  her  brain 
Once  in  mid-flight,  and  passed  again. 

There  hung  a  cage  of  burnt  perfumes       * 

In  the  recess  :  but  these, 
For  some  hours,  weak  against  the  sun, 
Had  simmered  in  white  ash.     From  One 
The  second  quarter  was  begun. 

They  had  not  heard  the  stroke.     The  air, 

Though  altered  with  no  wind, 
Breathed  now  by  pauses,  so  to  say  : 
Each  breath  was  time  that  went  away, — 
Each  pause  a  minute  of  the  day. 

I'  the  almonry,  the  almoner, 

Hard  by,  had  just  dispensed 
Church-dole  and  march-dole.     High  and  wide 
Now  rose  the  shout  of  thanks,  which  cried 
On  God  that  He  should  bless  the  bride. 

Its  echo  thrilled  within  their  feet, 

And  in  the  furthest  rooms 
"Was  heard,  where  maidens  flushed  and  gay 
Wove  with  stooped  necks  the  wreaths  alway 
Fair  for  the  virgin's  marriage-day. 

The  mother  leaned  along,  in  thought 

After  her  child  ;  till  tears, 
Bitter,  not  like  the  wedded  girl's, 
Fell  down  her  breast  along  her  curls, 
And  ran  in  the  close  work  of  pearls, 


150  THE  BRIDE 'S  PREL  UDE. 

The  speech  ached  at  her  heart.     She  said  : 

"  Sweet  Mary,  do  them  plead 
This  hour  with  thy  most  blessed  Son 
To  let  these  shameful  words  atone, 
That  I  may  die  when  I  have  done." 

The  thought  ached  at  her  soul.     Yet  now  :  — 

"Itself —  that  life"  (she  said,) 
"  Out  of  my  weary  life  —  when  sense 
Unclosed,  was  gone.     What  evil  men's 
Most  evil  hands  had  borne  it  thence 

"  I  knew,  and  cursed  them.     Still  in  sleep 

I  have  my  child  ;  and  pray 
To  know  if  it  indeed  appear 
As  in  my  dream's  perpetual  sphere, 
That  I  —  death  reached  —  may  seek  it  there. 

"  Sleeping,  I  wept ;  though  until  dark 

A  fever  dryed  mine  eyes 
Kept  open  ;  save  when  a  tear  might 
Be  forced  from  the  mere  ache  of  sight. 
And  I  nursed  hatred  day  and  night. 

"  Ay,  and  I  sought  revenge  by  spells  ; 

And  vainly  many  a  time 
Have  laid  my  face  into  the  lap 
Of  a  wise  woman,  and  heard  clap 
Her  thunder,  the  fiend's  juggling  trap. 

"  At  length  I  feared  to  curse  them,  lest 

From  evil  lips  the  curse 
Should  be  a  blessing  ;  and  would  sit 
Rocking  myself  and  stifling  it 
With  babbled  jargon  of  no  wit. 

"  But  this  was  not  at  first :  the  days 

And  weeks  made  frenzied  months 
Before  this  came.     My  curses,  pil'd 
Then  with  each  hour  unreconcil'd, 
Still  wait  for  those  who  took  my  child," 


THE  BRIDE  'S  PRELUDE.  151 

She  stopped,  grown  fainter.     "  Amelotte, 

Surely,"  she  said,  "  this  sun 
Sheds  judgment-fire  from  the  fierce  south : 
It  does  not  let  me  breathe  :  the  drouth 
Is  like  sand  spread  within  my  mouth." 

The  bridesmaid  rose.     I'  the  outer  glare 

Gleamed  her  pale  cheeks,  and  eyes 
Sore  troubled  ;  and  aweary  weigh'd 
Her  brows  just  lifted  out  of  shade  ; 
And  the  light  jarred  within  her  head. 

'Mid  flowers  fair  heaped  there  stood  a  bowl 

With  water.     She  therein 
Through  eddying  bubbles  slid  a  cup, 
And  offered  it,  being  risen  up, 
Close  to  her  sister's  mouth,  to  sup. 

The  freshness  dwelt  upon  her  sense, 

Yet  did  not  the  bride  drink  ; 
But  she  dipped  in  her  hand  anon 
And  cooled  her  temples  ;  and  all  wan 
With  lids  that  held  their  ache,  went  on. 

"  Through  those  dark  watches  of  my  woe, 

Time,  an  ill  plant,  had  waxed 
Apace.     That  year  was  finished.     Dumb 
And  blind,  life's  Avheel  with  earth's  had  come 
Whirled  round  :  and  we  might  seek  our  home. 

"  Our  wealth  was  rendered  back,  with  wealth 

Snatched  from  our  foes.     The  house 
Had  more  than  its  old  strength  and  fame  : 
But  still  'neath  the  fair  outward  claim 
I  rankled, —  a  fierce  core  of  shame. 

"It  chilled  me  from  their  eyes  and  lips 

Upon  a  night  of  those 
First  days  of  triumph,  as  I  gazed 
Listless  and  sick,  or  scarcely  raised 
My  face  to  mark  the  sports  they  praised. 


152  THE  BRIDE  '5  PREL  UDE. 

"  The  endless  changes  of  the  dance 

Bewildered  me  :  the  tones 
Of  lute  and  cithern  struggled  tow'rds 
Some  sense  ;  and  still  in  the  last  chords 
The  music  seemed  to  sing  wild  words. 

"  My  shame  possessed  me  in  the  light 

And  pageant,  till  I  swooned. 
But  from  that  hour  I  put  my  shame 
From  me,  and  cast  it  over  them 
By  God's  command  and  in  God's  name 

"  For  my  child's  bitter  sake.     O  thou 

Once  felt  against  my  heart 
With  longing  of  the  eyes, —  a  pain 
Since  to  my  heart  for  ever, —  then 
Beheld  not,  and  not  felt  again  !  " 

She  scarcely  paused,  continuing  :  — 

"  That  year  drooped  weak  in  March  ; 
And  April,  finding  the  streams  dry, 
Choked,  with  no  rain,  in  dust  :  the  sky 
Shall  not  be  fainter  this  July. 

"  Men  sickened  ;  beasts  lay  without  strength 

The  year  died  in  the  land. 
But  I,  already  desolate, 
Said  merely,  sitting  down  to  wait, — 
'  The  seasons  change  and  Time  wears  late.' 

"  For  I  had  my  hard  secret  told, 

In  secret,  to  a  priest ; 
With  him  I  communed  ;  and  he  said 
The  world's  soul,  for  its  sins,  was  sped, 
And  the  sun's  courses  numbered. 

"  The  year  slid  like  a  corpse  afloat  : 

None  trafficked, —  who  had  bread 
Did  eat.     That  year  our  legions,  come 
Thinned  from  the  place  of  war,  at  home 
Found  busier  death,  more  burdensome, 


THE  BRIDE  'S  PRELUDE.  153 

"  Tidings  and  rumors  came  with  them, 
The  first  for  months.     The  chiefs 
Sat  daily  at  onr  board,  and  in 
Their  speech  were  names  of  friend  and  kin  : 
One  day  they  spoke  of  Urscelyn. 

"  The  words  were  light,  among  the  rest ; 

Quick  glance  my  brothers  sent 
To  sift  the  speech  ;  and  I,  struck  through, 
Sat  sick  and  giddy  in  full  view : 
Yet  did  not  gaze,  so  many  knew. 

"  Because  in  the  beginning,  much 

Had  caught  abroad,  through  them 
That  heard  my  clamor  on  the  coast : 
But  two  were  hanged  ;  and  then  the  most 
Held  silence  wisdom,  as  thou  know'st. 

"  That  year  the  convent  yielded  thee 

Back  to  our  home  ;  and  thou 
Then  knew'st  not  how  I  shuddered  cold 
To  kiss  thee,  seeming  to  enfold 
To  my  changed  heart  myself  of  old. 

"  Then  there  was  showing  thee  the  house, 

So  many  rooms  and  doors  ; 
Thinking  the  while  how  thou  would'st  start 
If  once  I  flung  the  doors  apart 
Of  one  dull  chamber  in  my  heart. 

"  And  yet  I  longed  to  open  it ; 

And  often  in  that  year 
Of  plague  and  want,  when  side  by  side 
We've  knelt  to  pray  with  them  that  died, 
My  prayer  was,  '  Show  her  what  I  hide  ! '  " 


154  THREE  TRANSLATIONS. 

THREE  TRANSLATIONS  FROM  FRANCOIS 
VILLON,  1450. 

i. 
THE  BALLAD  OF  DEAD  LADIES. 

TELL  me  now  in  what  hidden  way  is 

Lady  Flora  the  lovely  Roman  ? 
Where's  Hipparchia,  and  where  is  Thais, 

Neither  of  them  the  fairer  woman  ? 

Where  is  Echo,  beheld  of  no  man, 
Only  heard  on  river  and  mere, — 

She  whose  beauty  was  more  than  human  ?  .  . 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 

Where's  Heloise,  the  learned  nun, 
For  whose  sake  Abeillard,  I  ween, 

Lost  manhood  and  put  priesthood  on  ? 
(From  Love  he  won  such  dule  and  teen  !) 
And  where,  I  pray  you,  is  the  Queen 

Who  willed  that  Buridan  should  steer 

Sewed  in  a  sack's  mouth  down  the  Seine  ?  .  . 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 

White  Queen  Blanche,  like  a  queen  of  lilies, 
With  a  voice  like  any  mermaiden, — 

Bertha  Broadfoot,  Beatrice,  Alice, 

And  Ermengarde  the  lady  of  Maine, — 
And  that  good  Joan  whom  Englishmen 

At  Rouen  doomed  and  burned  her  there, — 
Mother  of  God,  where  are  they  then  ?  .  .  . 

But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year  ? 

Nay,  never  ask  this  week,  fair  lord, 

Where  they  are  gone,  nor  yet  this  year, 

Except  with  this  for  an  overword, — 
But  where  are  the  snows  of  yester-year? 


THREE  TRANSLATIONS.  155 

n. 
To  DEATH,  OF  His  LADY. 

DEATH,  of  thee  do  I  make  my  moan, 
Who  hadst  my  lady  away  from  me, 
Nor  wilt  assuage  thine  enmity 

Till  with  her  life  thou  hast  mine  own  ; 

For  since  that  hour  my  strength  has  flown. 
Lo  !  what  wrong  was  her  life  to  thee, 

Death  ? 

Two  we  were,  and  the  heart  was  one  ; 
Which  now  being  dead,  dead  I  must  be, 
Or  seem  alive  as  lifelessly 
AP  in  the  choir  the  painted  stone, 

Death ! 
in. 

His  MOTHER'S  SERVICE  TO  OUR  LADY. 

LADY  of  Heaven  and  earth,  and  therewithal 
Crowned  Empress  of  the  nether  clefts  of  Hell, — 

I,  thy  poor  Christian,  on  thy  name  do  call, 
Commending  me  to  thee,  with  thee  to  dwell, 
Albeit  in  naught  I  be  commendable. 

But  all  mine  undeserving  may  not  mar 

Such  mercies  as  thy  sovereign  mercies  are  ; 
Without  the  which  (as  true  words  testify) 

No  soul  can  reach  thy  Heaven  so  fair  and  far. 
Even  in  this  faith  I  choose  to  live  and  die. 

Unto  thy  Son  say  thou  that  I  am  His, 
And  to  me  graceless  make  Him  gracious. 

Sad  Mary  of  Egypt  lacked  not  of  that  bliss, 
Nor  yet  the  sorrowful  clerk  Theophilus, 
Whose  bitter  sins  were  set  aside  even  thus 

Though  to  the  Fiend  his  bounden  service  was. 

Oh  help  me,  lest  in  vain  for  me  should  pass 

(Sweet  Virgin  that  shalt  have  no  loss  thereby  !) 

The  blessed  Host  and  sacring  of  the  Mass. 
Even  in  this  faith  I  choose  to  live  and  die, 


156  JOHN  OF  TOURS. 

A  pitiful  poor  woman,  shrunk  and  old, 
I  am,  and  nothing  learn'd  in  letter-lore. 

Within  my  parish-cloister  I  behold 

A  painted  Heaven  Avhere  harps  and  lutes  adore, 
And  eke  an  Hell  whose  damned  folk  seethe  full  sore 

One  bringeth  fear,  the  other  joy  to  mt . 

That  joy,  great  Goddess,  make  thou  mine  to  be, — 
'Thou  of  whom  all  must  ask  it  even  as  I ; 

And  that  which  faith  desires,  that  let  it  see. 
For  in  this  faith  I  choose  to  live  and  die. 

O  excellent  Virgin  Princess  !  thou  didst  bear 
King  Jesus,  the  most  excellent  comforter, 
Who  even  of  this  our  weakness  craved  a  share 

And  for  our  sake  stooped  to  us  from  on  high, 
Offering  to  death  His  young  life  sweet  and  fair. 
Such  as  He  is,  Our  Lord,  I  Him  declare, 

And  in  this  faith  I  choose  to  live  and  die. 


JOHN  OF  TOURS. 
(Old  French.) 

JOHN  of  Tours  is  back  with  peace, 
But  he  comes  home  ill  at  ease. 

"  Good-morrow,  mother."  "  Good-morrow,  son, 
Your  wife  has  borne  you  a  little  one." 

"  Go  now,  mother,  go  before, 
Make  me  a  bed  upon  the  floor  ; 

"  Very  low  your  foot  must  fall, 
That  my  wife  hear  not  at  all." 

As  it  neared  the  midnight  toll, 
John  of  Tours  gave  up  his  soul, 


OF  TOURS.  15? 

"  Tell  me  now,  my  mother  my  dear, 
What's  the  crying  that  I  hear  ?  " 

"  Daughter,  it's  the  children  wake 
Crying  with  their  teeth  that  ache." 

"  Tell  me  though,  my  mother  my  dear, 
What's  the  knocking  that  I  hear  ?  " 

"  Daughter,  it's  the  carpenter 
Mending  planks  upon  the  stair." 

"  Tell  me  too,  my  mother  my  dear, 
What's  the  singing  that  I  hear  ?  " 

"  Daughter,  it's  the  priests  in  rows 
Going  round  about  our  house." 

"  Tell  me  then,  my  mother  my  dear, 
What's  the  dress  that  I  should  wear  ?  " 

"  Daughter,  any  reds  or  blues, 
But  the  black  is  most  in  use." 

"  Nay,  but  say,  my  mother  my  dear, 
Why  do  you  fall  weeping  here?  " 

"  Oh  !  the  truth  must  be  said, — 
It's  that  John  of  Tours  is  dead." 

"Mother,  let  the  sexton  know 
That  the  grave  must  be  for  two  ; 

"  Ay,  and  still  have  room  to  spare, 
For  you  must  shut  the  baby  there." 


158  MY  FA  THER  'S  CL OSE. 

MY  FATHER'S  CLOSE. 

(Old  French.} 

INSIDE  my  father's  close, 

(Fly  away  O  my  heart  away  ! ) 
Sweet  apple-blossom  blows 
So  sweet. 

Three  kings'  daughters  fair, 

(Fly  away  O  my  heart  away  !) 
They  lie  below  it  there 
So  sweet. 

"  Ah  !  "  says  the  eldest  one, 

(Fly  away  O  my  heart  away  !) 
"  I  think  the  day's  begun 
So  sweet." 

"  Ah  ! "  says  the  second  one, 

(Fly  away  O  my  heart  away  !) 
"  Far  off  I  hear  the  drum 
So  sweet." 

"  Ah  !  "  says  the  youngest  one, 

(Fly  away  O  my  heart  away  !) 
"  It's  my  true  love,  my  own, 
So  sweet. 

"Oh  !  if  he  fight  ana  win." 

(Fly  away  O  my  heart  away  !) 
"  I  keep  my  love  for  him, 
So  sweet : 
He  hath  it  still  complete." 


YOUTH  AND  LORDSHIP.  15& 

BEAUTY. 
(A  combination  from  Sappho.) 


LIKE  the  sweet  apple  which  reddens  upon  the  top- 
most bough, 

A-top  on  the  topmost  twig, —  which  the  pluckers  for- 
got, somehow, — 

Forgot  it  not,  nay,  but  got  it  not,  for  none  could  get 
it  till  now. 

n. 

Like  the  wild  hyacinth  flower  which  on  the  hills  is 

found, 
Which  the  passing  feet  of  the  shepherds  for  ever  tear 

and  wound, 
Until  the  purple  blossom  is  trodden  into  the  ground. 


YOUTH  AND  LORDSHIP.* 

{Italian  Street- Song.) 

MY  young  lord's  the  lover 
Of  earth  and  sky  above, 

Of  youth's  sway  and  youth's  play, 
Of  songs  and  flowers  and  love. 

*  GIOVENTtlE  SIGNORIA. 

E  GIOVINE  il  signore,  AM  piu  che  il  sole, 
Ed  ama  molte  cose, —  Piu  ch'  ogni  rosa, 

I  canti,  le  rose,  La  cara  cosa, 

La  forza  e  1'amore.  Donna  a  gioire. 

Quel  che  piu  vuole  E  giovine  il  signore, 

Ancor  non  osa  :  Ed  ama  quelle  cose 


LORDSHIP. 


Yet  for  love's  desire 

Green  youth  lacks  the  daring  ; 

Though  one  dream  of  fire, 
All  his  hours  ensnaring, 
Burns  the  boy  past  bearing,  — 

The  dream  that  girls  inspire. 

My  young  lord's  the  lover 
Of  every  burning  thought 

That  Love's  will,  that  Love's  skill 
Within  his  breast  has  wrought. 

Lovely  girl,  look  on  him 
Soft  as  music's  measure  ; 

Yield  him,  when  you've  won  him, 
Joys  and  toys  at  pleasure  ; 
But  to  win  your  treasure, 

Softly  look  upon  him. 

My  young  lord's  the  lover 

Of  every  tender  grace 
That  woman,  to  woo  man, 

Can  wear  in  form  or  face. 


Che  ardor  dispose  Bacialo  e  1'avrai, 
In  cuore  all'  amore.  Ma  non  lo  dire. 

Bella  fanciulla,  E  giovine  il  signore, 
Guardalo  in  viso  ;  Ed  ama  ben  le  cose 

Mon  mancar  nulla,  Che  Amor  nascose, 

Motto  o  sorriso  ;  Che  mostragli  Amore. 
Ma  viso  a  viso 

Guarda  a  gradire.  Deh  trionfando 

Non  fame  pruova  ; 

E  giovine  il  signore,  Ahime  !  che  quando 

Ed  ama  tutte  cose,  Gioja  piu  giova, 
Vezzose,  giojose,  Allor  si  trova 

Tenenti  all'  amore.  Presso  al  finire. 

Prendilo  in  braccio  E  giovine  il  ^ignore, 
Adesso  o  mai  ;  Ed  ama  tante  cose, 

Per  piu  mi  taccio,  Le  rose,  le  spose, 

Chd  tu  lo  sai  ;  Quante  gli  dona  Amore. 


THE  LEAF.  161 

Take  him  to  your  bosom 

Now,  girl,  or  never  ; 
Let  not  your  new  blossom 

Of  sweet  kisses  sever  ; 

Only  guard  for  ever 
Your  boast  within  your  bosom. 

My  young  lord's  the  lover 

Of  every  secret  thing, 
Love-hidden,  love-bidden 

This  day  to  banqueting. 

Lovely  girl,  with  vaunting 

Never  tempt  to-morrow  : 
From  all  shapes  enchanting 

Any  joy  can  borrow, 

Still  the  specter  Sorrow 
Rises  up  for  haunting. 

And  now  my  lord's  the  lover 

Of  ah  !  so  many  a  sweet, — 
Of  roses,  of  spouses, 

As  many  as  love  may  greet. 


THE  LEAF. 

(Leopardi.) 

X  from  your  parent  bough, 
Poor  leaf  all  withered  now, 

Where  go  you  ?  "     "I  cannot  tell. 
Storm-stricken  is  the  oak-tree 

Where  I  grew,  whence  I  fell. 
Changeful  continually, 

The  zephyr  and  hurricane 
Since  that  day  bid  me  flee 
From  deepest  woods  to  the  lea, 
11 


162  FRANCESCA  DA  RIMINI. 

From  highest  hills  to  the  plain. 
Where  the  wind  carries  me 

I  go  without  fear  or  grief  : 
I  go  whither  each  one  goes, — 
Thither  the  leaf  of  the  rose 

And  thither  the  laurel-leaf." 


FRANCESCA  DA  RIMINI. 
(Dante. ) 


When  I  made  answer,  I  began  :  "  Alas  ! 

How  many  sweet  thoughts  and  how  much  desire 
Led  these  two  onward  to  the  dolorous  pass  !  " 

Then  turned  to  them,  as  who  would  fain  inquire, 
And  said  :  "  Francesca,  these  thine  agonies 

Wring  tears  for  pity  and  grief  that  they  inspire  : 
But  tell  me, —  in  the  season  of  sweet  sighs, 

When  and  what  way  did  Love  instruct  you  so 
That  he  in  your  vague  longings  made  you  wise  ?  " 

Then  she  to  me  :  "  There  is  no  greater  woe 
Than  the  remembrance  brings  of  happy  days 

In  Misery  ;  and  this  thy  guide  doth  know. 
But  if  the  first  beginnings  to  retrace 

Of  our  sad  love  can  yield  thee  solace  here, 
So  will  I  be  as  one  that  weeps  and  says. 

One  day  we  read,  for  pastime  and  sweet  cheer, 
Of  Lancelot,  how  he  found  Love  tyrannous  : 

We  were  alone  and  without  any  fear. 
Our  eyes  were  drawn  together,  reading  thus, 

Full  oft,  and  still  our  cheeks  would  pale  and  glow ; 
But  one  sole  point  it  was  that  conquered  us. 

For  when  we  read  of  that  great  lover,  how 
He  kissed  the  smile  which  he  had  longed  to  win, — 

Then  he  whom  naught  can  sever  from  me  now 


LOVE-LILY.  '163 

For  ever,  kissed  my  mouth,  all  quivering. 

A  Galahalt  was  the  book,  and  he  that  writ : 
Upon  that  day  we  read  no  more  therein." 

At  the  tale  told,  while  one  soul  uttered  it, 
The  other  wept  :  a  pang  so  pitiable 

That  I  was  seized,  like  death,  in  swooning-fit, 
And  even  as  a  dead  body  falls,  I  fell 


LOVE-LILY. 

BETWEEN  the  hands,  between  the  brows, 

Between  the  lips  of  Love-Lily, 
A  spirit  is  born  whose  birth  endows 

My  blood  with  fire  to  burn  through  me  ; 
Who  breathes  upon  my  gazing  eyes, 

"\Vho  laughs  and  murmurs  in  mine  ear, 
At  whose  least  touch  my  color  flies, 

And  whom  my  life  grows  faint  to  hear. 

Within  the  voice,  within  the  heart, 

Within  the  mind  of  Love-Lily, 
A  spirit  is  born  who  lifts  apart 

His  tremulous  wings  and  looks  at  me  ; 
Who  on  my  mouth  his  finger  lays, 

And  shows,  while  whispering  lutes  confer, 
That  Eden  of  Love's  watered  ways 

Whose  winds  and  spirits  worship  her. 

Brows,  hands,  and  lips,  heart,  mind,  and  voice, 

Kisses  and  words  of  Love-Lily, — 
Oh  !  bid  me  with  your  joy  rejoice 

Till  riotous  longing  rest  in  me  ! 
Ah  !  let  not  hope  be  still  distraught, 

But  find  in  her  its  gracious  goal, 
Whose  speech  Truth  knows  not  from  her  thought 

Nor  Love  her  body  from  her  soul 


164  PLIGHTED  PROMISE. 


FIRST  LOVE  REMEMBERED. 

PEACE  in  her  chamber,  wheresoe'er 

It  be,  a  holy  place  : 
The  thought  still  brings  my  soul  such  grace 

As  morning  meadows  wear. 

Whether  it  still  be  small  and  light, 

A  maid's  who  dreams  alone, 
As  from  her  orchard  gate  the  moon 

Its  ceiling  showed  at  night  : 

Or  whether,  in  a  shadow  dense 
As  nuptial  hymns  invoke, 
Innocent  maidenhood  awoke 
To  married  innocence  : 

There   still  the  thanks  unheard  await 
The  unconscious  gift  bequeathed  ; 

For  there  my  soul  this  hour  has  breathed, 
An  air  inviolate. 


PLIGHTED  PROMISE. 

IN  a  soft-complexioned  sky, 

Fleeting  rose  and  kindling  gray, 

Have  you  seen  Aurora  fly 
At  the  break  of  day  ? 

So  my  maiden,  so  my  plighted  may 
Blushing  cheek  and  gleaming  eye 
Lifts  to  look  my  way. 

Where  the  inmost  leaf  is  stirred 
With  the  heart-beat  of  the  grove, 

Have  you  heard  a  hidden  bird 
Cast  her  note  above  ? 


SUDDEN  LIGHT.  165 

So  my  lady,  so  my  lovely  love, 
Echoing  Cupid's  prompted  word, 
Makes  a  tune  thereof. 

Have  you  seen,  at  heaven's  mid-height, 
In  the  moon-rack's  ebb  and  tide, 

Venus  leap  forth  burning  white, 

Dian  pale  and  hide  ? 
So  my  bright  breast-jewel,  so  my  bride, 

One  sweet  night,  when  fear  takes  flight, 
Shall  leap  against  my  side. 


SUDDEN  LIGHT. 

I  HAVE  been  here  before, 

But  when  or  how  I  cannot  tell : 

I  know  the  grass  beyond  the  door, 

The  sweet  keen  smell, 
The  sighing  sound,  the  lights  around  the  shore. 

You  have  been  mine  before, — 
How  long  ago  I  may  not  know  : 

But  just  when  at  that  swallow's  soar 

Your  neck  turned  so, 
Some  veil  did  fall, —  I  knew  it  all  of  yore. 

Has  this  been  thus  before  ? 

And  shall  not  thus  time's  eddying  flight 
Still  with  our  lives  our  loves  restore 

In  death's  despite, 
And  day  and  night  yield  one  delight  once  more  ? 


166  A  LITTLE   WHILE. 


A  LITTLE  WHILE. 

A  LITTLE  while  a  little  love 

The  hour  yet  bears  for  thee  and  me 

Who  have  not  drawn  the  veil  to  see 
If  still  our  heaven  be  lit  above. 
Thou  merely,  at  the  day's  last  sigh, 

Hast  felt  thy  soul  prolong  the  tone  ; 
And  I  have  heard  the  night-wind  cry 

And  deemed  its  speech  mine  own. 

A  little  while  a  little  love 

The  scattering  autumn  hoards  for  us 

Whose  bower  is  not  yet  ruinous 
Nor  quite  unleaved  our  songless  grove. 
Only  across  the  shaken  boughs 

We  hear  the  flood-tides  seek  the  sea, 
And  deep  in  both  our  hearts  they  rouse 

One  wail  for  thee  and  me. 

A  little  while  a  little  love 

May  yet  be  ours  who  have  not  said 
The  word  it  makes  our  eyes  afraid 

To  know  that  each  is  thinking  of. 

Not  yet  the  end  :  be  our  lips  dumb 
In  smiles  a  little  season  yet : 

I'll  tell  thee,  when  the  end  is  come, 
How  we  may  best  forget. 


THE  SOXG  OF  THE  BO  WER.  167 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  BOWER. 

SAY,  is  it  day,  is  it  dusk  in  thy  bower, 

Thou  whom  I  long  for,  who  longest  for  me  ? 
Oh  !  be  it  light,  be  it  night,  'tis  Love's  hour, 

Love's  that  is  fettered  as  Love's  that  is  free. 
Free  Love  has  leaped  to  that  innermost  chamber, 

Oh  !  the  last  time,  and  the  hundred  before  : 
Fettered  Love,  motionless,  can  but  remember, 

Yet  something  that  sighs  from  him  passes  the  door. 

Nay,  but  my  heart  when  it  flies  to  thy  bower, 

What  does  it  find  there  that  knows  it  again  ? 
There  it  must  droop  like  a  shower-beaten  flower, 

Red  at  the  rent  core  and  dark  with  the  rain. 
Ah  !  yet  what  shelter  is  still  shed  above  it, — 

What  waters  still  image  its  leaves  torn  apart  ? 
Thy  soul  is  the  shade  that  clings  roimd  it  to  love  it, 

And  tears  are  its  mirror  deep  down  in  thy  heart. 


What  were  my  prize,  could  I  enter  thy  bower, 

This  day,  to-morrow,  at  eve  or  at  morn  ? 
Large  lovely  arms  and  a  neck  like  a  tower, 

Bosom  then  heaving  that  now  lies  forlorn. 
Kindled  with  love-breath,  (the  sun's  kiss  is  colder !) 

Thy  sweetness  all  near  me,  so  distant  to-day  ; 
My  hand  round  thy  neck  and  thy  hand  on  my  shoulder, 

My  mouth  to  thy  mouth  as  the  world  melts  away. 


What  is  it  keeps  me  afar  from  thy  bower, — 
My  spirit,  my  body,  so  fain  to  be  there  ? 

Waters  engulfing  or  fires  that  devour?  — 

Earth  heaped  against  me  or  death  in  the  air  ? 

Nay,  but  in  day-dreams,  for  terror,  for  pity, 
•  The  trees  wave  their  heads  with  an  omen  to  tell ; 

Nay,  but  in  night-dreams,  throughout  the  dark  city, 
The  hours,  clashed  together,  lose  count  in  the  bell. 


168  PENUMBRA. 

Shall  I  not  one  day  remember  thy  bower, 

One  day  when  all  days  are  one  day  to  me?  — 
Thinking,  "  I  stirred  not,  and  yet  had  the  power," 

Yearning,  "  Ah  God,  if  again  it  might  be  !  " 
Peace,  peace  !  such  a  small  lamp  illumes,  on  this  high- 
way, 

So  dimly  so  few  steps  in  front  of  my  feet, — 
Yet  shows  me  that  her  way  is  parted  from  my  way.  .  . 

Out  of  sight,  beyond  light,  at  what  goal  may  we 
meet? 


PENUMBRA. 

I  DID  not  look  upon  her  eyes, 
(Though  scarcely  seen,  with  no  surprise, 
'Mid  many  eyes  a  single  look,) 
Because  they  should  not  gaze  rebuke, 
At  night,  from  stars  in  sky  and  brook. 

I  did  not  take  her  by  the  hand, 

(Though  little  was  to  understand 

From  touch  of  hand  all  friends  might  take,) 

Because  it  should  not  prove  a  flake 

Burnt  in  my  palm  to  boil  and  ache. 

I  did  not  listen  to  her  voice, 
(Though  none  had  noted,  where  at  choice 
All  might  rejoice  in  listening,) 
Because  no  such  a  thing  should  cling 
In  the  wood's  moan  at  evening. 

I  did  not  cross  her  shadow  once, 
(Though  from  the  hollow  west  the  sun's 
Last  shadow  runs  along  so  far,) 
Because  in  June  it  should  not  bar 
My  ways,  at  noon  when  fevers  are. 


THE   WOODSPURGE.  169 

They  told  me  she  was  sad  that  day. 
(Though  wherefore  tell  what  love's  soothsay, 
Sooner  than  they,  did  register  ?) 
And  my  heart  leapt  and  wept  to  her, 
And  yet  I  did  not  speak  nor  stir. 

So  shall  the  tongues  of  the  sea's  foam 
(Though  many  voices  therewith  come 
From  drowned  hope's  home  to  cry  to  me,) 
Bewail  one  hour  the  more,  when  sea 
And  wind  are  one  with  memory. 


THE  WOODSPURGE. 

THE  wind  flapped  loose,  the  wind  was  still, 
Shaken  out  dead  from  tree  and  hill  : 
I  had  walked  on  at  the  wind's  will, — 
I  sat  now,  for  the  wind  was  still. 

Between  my  knees  my  forehead  was, — 
My  lips,  drawn  in,  said  not  Alas  ! 
My  hair  was  over  in  the  grass, 
My  naked  ears  heard  the  day  pass. 

My  eyes,  wide  open,  had  the  run 

Of  some  ten  weeds  to  fix  upon  ; 

Among  those  few,  out  of  the  sun, 

The  woodspurge  flowered,  three  cups  in  one. 

From  perfect  grief  there  need  not  be 
"Wisdom  or  even  memory  : 
One  thing  then  learnt  remains  to  me, — • 
The  woodspurge  has  a  cup  of  three, 


170  A    YOUNG  FIR- WOOD. 


THE  HOXEYSUCKLE. 

I  PLUCKED  a  honeysuckle  where 

The  hedge  on  high  is  quick  with  thorn, 
And  climbing  for  the  prize,  was  torn, 

And  fouled  .my  feet  in  quag- water  ; 
And  by  the  thorns  and  by  the  wind 
The  blossom  that  I  took  was  thinn'd, 

And  yet  I  found  it  sweet  and  fair. 

Thence  to  a  richer  growth  I  came, 
Where,  nursed  in  mellow  intercourse, 
The  honeysuckles  sprang  by  scores, 

Not  harried  like  my  single  stem, 
All  virgin  lamps  of  scent  and  dew. 
So  from  my  hand  that  first  I  threw, 

Yet  plucked  not  any  more  of  them. 


A  YOUNG  FIR-WOOD. 

THESE  little  firs  to-day  are  things 
To  clasp  into  a  giant's  cap, 
Or  fans  to  suit  his  lady's  lap. 

From  many  winters  many  springs 

Shall  cherish  them  in  strength  and  sap, 
Till  they  be  marked  upon  the  map, 

A  wood  for  the  wind's  wanderings. 

All  seed  is  in  the  sower's  hands  : 

And  what  at  first  was  trained  to  spread 
Its  shelter  for  some  single  head, — 

Yea,  even  such  fellowship  of  wands, — 
May  hide  the  sunset,  and  the  shade 
Of  its  great  multitude  be  laid 

Upon  the  earth  and  elder  sands. 


THE  SEA-LIMITS.  171 


THE  SEA-LIMITS. 

CONSIDER  the  sea's  liftless  chime  : 
Time's  self  it  is,  made  audible, — 
The  murmur  of  the  earth's  own  shelL 

Secret  continuance  sublime 

Is  the  sea's  end  :  our  sight  may  pass 
No  furlong  further.     Since  time  was, 

This  sound  hath  told  the  lapse  of  time. 

No  quiet,  which  is  death's, —  it  hath 

The  mournfulness  of  ancient  life, 

Enduring  always  at  dull  sti-ife. 
As  the  world's  heart  of  rest  and  wrath, 

Its  painful  pulse  is  in  the  sands. 

Last  utterly,  the  whole  sky  stands, 
Gray  and  not  known,  along  its  path. 

Listen  alone  beside  the  sea, 

Listen  slone  among  the  woods  ; 
Those  voices  of  twin  solitudes 

Shall  have  one  sound  alike  to  thee  : 

Hark  where  the  murmurs  of  thronged  men 
Surge  and  sink  back  and  surge  again, — 

Still  the  one  voice  of  wave  and  tree. 

Gather  a  shell  from  the  strown  beach 
And  listen  at  its  lips  :  they  sigh 
The  same  desire  and  mystery, 

The  echo  of  the  whole  sea's  speech. 
And  all  mankind  is  thus  at  heart 
Not  anything  but  what  thou  art  : 

And  Earth,  Sea,  Man,  are  all  in  each. 


173  SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES. 

FOR 

"OUR  LADY  OF  THE  ROCKS." 
BY  LEONARDO  DA  VINCI. 

MOTHER,  is  this  the  darkness  of  the  end, 
The  Shadow  of  Death  ?  and  is  that  outer  sea 
Infinite  imminent  Eternity? 

And  does  the  death-pang  by  man's  seed  sustain'd 

In  Time's  each  instant  cause  thy  face  to  bend 
Its  silent  prayer  upon  the  Son,  while  he 
Blesses  the  dead  with  his  hand  silently 

To  his  long  day  which  hours  no  more  offend  ? 

Mother  of  grace,  the  pass  is  difficult, 

Keen  as  those  rocks,  and  the  bewildered  souls 
Throng  it  like  echoes,  blindly  shuddering  through. 
Thy  name,  O  Lord,  each  spirit's  voice  extols, 
Whose  peace  abides  in  the  dark  avenue 
Amid  the  bitterness  of  things  occult. 


FOR 

A  VENETIAN  PASTORAL. 

BY  GIORGIONB. 

(In  the  Louvre.) 

WATER,  for  anguish  of  the  solstice  : —  nay, 
But  dip  the  vessel  slowly, —  nay,  but  lean 
And  hark  how  at  its  verge  the  wave  sighs  in 
Reluctant.     Hush  !     Beyond  all  depth  away 
The  heat  lies  silent  at  the  brink  of  day  : 

Now  the  hand  trails  upon  the  viol-string 
That  sobs,  and  the  brown  faces  cease  to  sing, 


SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES.  173 

Sad  with  the  whole  of  pleasure.     Whither  stray 
Her  eyes  now,  from  whose  mouth  the  slim  pipes  creep 
And  leave  it  pouting,  while  the  shadowed  grass 

Is  cool  against  her  naked  side  ?      Let  be  :  — 
Say  nothing  unto  her  lest  she  weep, 

Nor  name  this  ever.     Be  it  as  it  was,— 
Life  touching  lips  with  Immortality. 


FOR 

AN  ALLEGORICAL  DANCE  OF  WOMEN. 

BY  AJSTDKEA  MAXTEGNA. 

(J~n  the  Louvre.) 

SCABCELY,  I  think  ;  yet  it  indeed  may  be 

The  meaning  reached  him,  when  this  music  rang 
Clear  through  his  frame,  a  sweet  possessive  pang, 

And  he  beheld  these  rocks  and  that  ridged  sea. 

But  I  believed  that,  leaning  tow'rds  them,  he 
Just  felt  their  hair  carried  across  his  face 
As  each  girl  passed  him  ;  nor  gave  ear  to  trace 

How  many  feet ;  nor  bent  assuredly 

His  eyes  from  the  blind  fixedness  of  thought 
To  know  the  dancers.     It  is  bitter  glad 
Even  unto  tears.     Its  meaning  filleth  it, 
A  secret  of  the  wells  of  Life  :  to  wit  :  — 
The  heart's  each  pulse  shall  keep  the  sense  it  had 

With  all,  though  the  mind's  labor  run  to  naught. 


174  SOAWETS  FOR  PICTURES. 

FOR 

"RUGGIERO  AND  ANGELICA." 

BY  INGRES. 
(Two  Sonnets.) 


A  REMOTE  sky,  prolonged  to  the  sea's  brim  : 
One  rock-point  standing  buffeted  alone, 
Vexed  at  its  base  with  a  foul  beast  unknown, 

Hell-birth  of  geomaunt  and  teraphim  : 

A  knight,  and  a  winged  creature  bearing  him, 
Reared  at  the  rock  :  a  woman  fettered  there, 
Leaning  into  the  hollow  with  loose  hair 

And  throat  let  back  and  heartsick  trail  of  limb. 

The  sky  is  harsh,  and  the  sea  shrewd  and  salt  : 
Under  his  lord  the  griffin-horse  ramps  blind 

With  rigid  wings  and  tail.     The  spear's  lithe  stem 
Thrills  in  the  roaring  of  those  jaws  :  behind, 
That  evil  length  of  body  chafes  at  fault. 

She  doth  not  hear  nor  see  —  she  knows  of  them. 

n. 

Clench  thine  eyes  now, —  'tis  the  last  instant,  girl : 
Draw  in  thy  senses,  set  thy  knees,  and  take 
One  breath  for  all  :  thy  life  is  keen  awake, — 

Thou  mayst  not  swoon.     Was  that  the  scattered  whirl 

Of  its  foam  drenched  thee  ?  —  or  the  waves  that  curl 
And  split,  bleak  spray  wherein  thy  temples  ache? 
Or  was  it  his  the  champion's  blood  to  flake 

Thy  flesh  ?  —  or  thine  own  blood's  anointing,  girl  ? 

Now,  silence  :  for  the  sea's  is  such  a  sound 
As  irks  not  silence  ;  and  except  the  sea, 

All  now  is  still.     Now  the  dead  thing  doth  cease 
To  writhe,  and  drifts.     He  turns  to  her  :  and  sho, 
Cast  from  the  jaws  of  Death,  remains  there,  bound, 
Again  a  woman  in  her  nakedness. 


SOJfffJSTS  FOR  PICTURES.  175 

FOB 

"THE  WINE  OF  CIRCE." 

BY  EDWARD   BURKE    JOKES. 

DUSK-HAIRED  and  gold-robed  o'er  the  golden  wine 
She  stoops,  wherein,  distilled  of  death  and  shame, 
Sink  the  black  drops  ;  while,  lit  with  fragrant  flame, 

Round  her  spread  board  the  golden  sunflowers  shine. 

Doth  Helios  here  with  Hecate  combine 

(O  Circe,  thou  their  votaress  !)  to  proclaim 
For  these  thy  guests  all"  rapture  in  Love's  name, 

Till  pitiless  Night  give  Day  the  countersign  ? 

Lords  of  their  hour,  they  come.     And  by  her  knee 
Those  cowering  beasts,  their  equals  heretofore, 

Wait  ;  who  with  them  in  new  equality 

To-night  shall  echo  back  the  sea's  dull  roar 
With  a  vain  wail  from  passion's  tide-strown  ^hore 

Where  the  disheveled  seaweed  hates  the  sea. 


MARY'S  GIRLHOOD. 

(For  a  Picture.') 

THIS  is  that  blessed  Mary,  pre-elect 

God's  Virgin.     Gone  is  a  great  while,  and  she 
Dwelt  young  in  Nazareth  of  Galilee. 

Unto  God's  will  she  brought  devout  respect, 

Profound  simplicity  of  intellect, 

And  supreme  patience.     From  her  mother's  knee 
Faithful  and  hopeful  ;  wise  in  charity  ; 

Strong  in  grave  peace  ;  in  pity  circumspect. 


176  SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES. 

So  held  she  through  her  girlhood  ;  as  it  were 
An  angel-watered  lily,  that  near  God 

Grows  and  is  quiet.     Till,  one  dawn  at  home, 
She  woke  in  her  white  bed,  and  had  no  fear 
At  all, —  yet  wept  till  sunshine,  and  felt  awed  : 
Because  the  fullness  of  the  time  was  come. 


THE  PASSOVER  IN  THE  HOLY  FAMILY. 

(For  a  Drawing*) 

HERE  meet  together  the  prefiguring  day 

And  day  prefigured.     "  Eating,  thou  shalt  stand, 
Feet  shod,  loins  girt,  thy  road-staff  in  thine  hand, 

With  blood-stained  door  and  lintel," —  did  God  say 

By  Moses'  mouth  in  ages  passed  away. 

And  now,  where  this  poor  household  doth  comprise 
At  Paschal-Feast  two  kindred  families, — 

Lo  !  the  slain  lamb  confronts  the  Lamb  to  slay. 

The  pyre  is  piled.     What  agony's  crown  attained, 
What  shadow  of  Death  the  Boy's  fair  brow  subdues 

Who  holds  that  blood  wherewith  the  porch  is  stained 
By  Zachary  the  priest  ?     John  binds  the  shoes 
He  deemed  himself  not  worthy  to  unloose  ; 

And  Mary  culls  the  bitter  herbs  ordained. 


*  The  scene  is  in  the  house-porch,  where  Christ,  holds  a 
bowl  of  blood  from  which  Zacharias  is  sprinkling  the  postsand 
lintel.  Joseph  lias  brought  Ihe  lamb  and  Elizabeth  lights  the 
pyre.  The  shoes  which  John  fastens  and  Ihe  bitter  herbs 
which  Mary  is  gathering  form  part  of  the  ritual. 


SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES.  177 


MARY  MAGDALENE. 

AT  THE  DOOE  OF  SIMO2^  THE  PHAEISEE. 

(For  a  Draicing*} 

"  WHY  wilt  thou  cast  the  roses  from  thine  hair  ? 

Nay,  be  thou  all  a  rose, —  wreath,  lips,  and  cheek. 

Nay,  not  this  house, —  that  banquet-house  we  seek  ; 
See  how  they  kiss  and  enter  ;  come  thou  there. 
This  delicate  day  of  love  we  two  will  share 

Till  at  our  ear  love's  whispering  night  shall  speai. 

What,  sweet  one, —  hold'st   thou   still   the   foolish 

freak  ? 
Nay,  when  I  kiss  thy  feet  they'll  leave  the  stair." 

"  Oh  loose  me  !     Seest  thou  not  my  Bridegroom's  face 
That  draws  me  to  Him  ?     For  His  feet  my  kiss, 

My  hair,  my  tears  He  craves  to-day  :  —  and  oh  ! 
What  words  can  tell  what  other  day  and  place 

Shall  see  me  clasp  those  blood-stained  feet  of  His  ? 
He  needs  me,  calls  me,  loves  me  :  let  me  go  ! " 


*  In  the  drawing  Mary  has  left  a  festal  procession,  and  is 
ascending  by  a  sudden  impulse  the  steps  of  the  house  where 
she  sees  Christ.  Her  lover  has  followed  her  and  is  trying  to 
turn  her  back. 


178  SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES. 


SAINT  LUKE  THE  PAINTER. 
(For  a  Drawing.) 

GIVE  honor  unto  Luke  Evangelist  ; 
For  he  it  was  (the  aged  legends  say) 
Who  first  taught  Art  to  fold  her  hands  and  pray. 

Scarcely  at  once  she  dared  to  rend  the  mist 

Of  devious  symbols  :  but  soon  having  wist 
How  sky  breadth  and  field-silence  and  this  day 
Are  symbols  also  in  some  deeper  way, 

She  looked,  through  these  to  God  and  was  God's  priest. 

And  if,  past  noon,  her  toil  began  to  irk, 
Ami  she  sought  talismans,  and  turned  in  vain 
To  soulless  self-reflections  of  man's  skill, — 
Yet  now,  in  this  the  twilight,  she  might  still 
Kneel  in  the  latter  grass  to  pray  again, 
Ere  the  night  cometh  and  she  may  not  work. 


LILITH. 

(For  a  Picture.) 

Or  Adam's  first  wife,  Lilith,  it  is  told 

(The  witch  he  loved  before  the  gift  of  Eve,) 
That,  ere  the  snake's,  her  sweet  tongue  could  deceive, 

And  her  enchanted  hair  was  the  first  gold. 

And  still  she  sits,  young  while  the  earth  is  old, 
And,  subtly  of  herself  contemplative, 
Draws  men  to  watch  the  bright  net  she  can  weave, 

Till  heart  and  body  and  life  are  in  its  hold. 

The  rose  and  poppy  are  her  flowers  ;  for  where 
Is  he  not  found,  O  Lilith,  whom  shed  scent 

And  soft-shed  kisses  and  soft  sleep  shall  snare  ? 
Lo  !  as  that  youth's  eyes  burned  at  thine,  so  went 
Thy  spell  through  him,  and  left  his  straight  neck 
bent, 

And  round  his  heart  one  strangling  golden  hair. 


SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES.  ItO 

SIBYLLA  PALMIFERA. 

(For  a  Picture.) 

UNDER  the  arch  of  Life,  where  love  and  death, 
Terror  and  mystery,  guard  her  shrine,  I  saw 
Beauty  enthroned  ;  and  though  her  gaze  struck  awe, 

I  drew  it  in  as  simply  as  my  breath. 

Hers  are  the  eyes  which,  over  and  beneath, 

The  sky  and  sea  bend  on  thee, —  which  can  draw, 
By  sea  or  sky  or  woman,  to  one  law, 

The  allotted  bondman  of  her  palm  and  wreath. 

This  is  that  Lady  Beauty,  in  whose  praise 

Thy  voice  and  hand  shake  still, —  long  known  to  thee 
By  flying  hair  and  fluttering  hem, —  the  beat 
Following  her  daily  of  thy  heart  and  feet, 
How  passionately  and  irretrievably, 
In  what  fond  flight,  how  many  ways  and  days  ! 


VENUS   VERTICORDIA. 
(For  a  Picture.) 

SHE  hath  the  apple  in  her  hand  for  thee, 

Yet  almost  in  her  heart  would  hold  it  back  ; 
She  muses,  with  her  eyes  upon  the  track 

Of  that  which  in  thy  spirit  they  can  see. 

Haply,  "  Behold,  he  is  at  peace,"  saith  she  ; 
"  Alas  !  the  apple  for  his  lips, —  the  dart 
That  follows  its  brief  sweetness  to  his  heart,- 

The  wandering  of  his  feet  perpetually  !  " 


ISO  SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES. 

A  little  space  her  glance  is  still  and  coy  ; 

But  if  she  give  the  fruit  that  works  her  spell, 
Those  eyes  shall  flame  as  for  her  Phrygian  boy. 

Then  shall  her  bird's  strained  throat  the  woe  f  dre- 
tell, 

And  her  far  seas  moan  as  a  single  shell, 
And  through  her  dark  grove  strike  the  light  of  Troy. 


CASSANDRA. 
(For  a  Drawing*') 


REND,  rend  thine  hair,  Cassandra  :  he  will  go. 

Yea,  rend  thy  garments,  wring  thine  hands,  and  cry 
From  Troy  still  towered  to  the  unreddened  sky. 

See,  all  but  she  that  bore  thee  mock  thy  woe  :  — 

He  most  whom  that  fair  woman  arms,  with  show 
Of  wrath  on  her  bent  brows  ;  for  in  this  place 
This  hour  thou  bad'st  all  men  in  Helen's  face 

The  ravished  ravishing  prize  of  Death  to  know. 

What  eyes,  what  ears  hath  sweet  Andromache, 
Save  for  her  Hector's  form  and  step  ;  as  tear 

On  tear  make  salt  the  warm  last  kiss  he  gave  ? 
He  goes.     Cassandra's  words  beat  heavily 
Like  crows  above  his  crest,  and  at  his  ear 
Ring  hollow  in  the  shield  that  shall  not  save. 


*  The  subject  shows  Cassandra  prophesying  among  her 
kindred,  as  Hector  leaves  them  for  his  last  battle.  They  are 
on  the  platform  of  a  fortress,  from  which  the  Trojan  troops 
are  marching  out.  Helen  is  arming  Paris  ;  Priam  soothes 
Hecuba  ;  and  Andromache  holds  the  child  to  her  bosom. 


SONNETS  FOR  PICTURES.  181 

II. 

"  O  Hector,  gone,  gone,  gone  !  O  Hector,  thee 

Two  chariots  wait,  in  Troy  long  bless'd  and  curs'd  ; 
And  Grecian  spear  and  Phrygian  sand  athirst 

Crave  from  thy  veins  the  blood  of  victory. 

Lo  !  long  upon  our  hearth  the  brand  had  we, 
Lit  for  the  roof -tree's  ruin  :  and  to-day 
The  ground-stone  quits  the  wall, —  the  wind  hath 
way, — 

And  higher  and  higher  the  wings  of  fire  are  free. 

O  Paris,  Paris  !  O  thou  burning  brand, 

Thou  beacon  of  the  sea  whence  Venus  rose, 

Lighting  thy  race  to  shipwreck  !  Even  that  hand 
Wherewith  she  took  thine  apple  let  her  close 
Within  thy  curls  at  last,  and  while  Troy  glows 

Lift  thee  her  trophy  to  the  sea  and  land." 


PANDORA. 

(For  a  Picture.) 

WHAT  of  the  end,  Pandora  ?  Was  it  thine, 
The  deed  that  set  these  fiery  pinions  free? 
Ah  !  wherefore  did  the  Olympian  consistory 

In  its  own  likeness  make  thee  half  divine  ? 

Was  it  that  Juno's  brow  might  stand  a  sign 
For  ever  ?  and  the  mien  of  Pallas  be 
A  deadly  thing  ?  and  that  all  men  might  see 

In  Venus'  eyes  the  gaze  of  Proserpine  ? 

What  of  the  end  ?  These  beat  their  wings  at  will, 
The  ill-born  things,  the  good  things  turned  to  ill, — 

Powers  of  the  impassioned  hours  prohibited. 
Ay,  clench  the  casket  now  !  Whither  they  go 
Thou  mayst  not  dare  to  think  :  nor  canst  thou  know 

If  Hope  still  pent  there  be  alive  or  dead. 


182  SONNETS. 


ON  REFUSAL  OF  AID  BETWEEN  NATIONS. 

NOT  that  the  earth  is  changing,  O  ray  God  ! 

Nor  that  the  seasons  totter  in  their  walk, — 

Not  that  the  virulent  ill  of  act  and  talk 
Seethes  ever  as  a  winepress  ever  trod, — 
Not  therefore  are  we  certain  that  the  rod 

Weighs  in  thine  hand  to  smite  thy  world  ;  though 
now 

Beneath  thine  hand  so  many  nations  bow, 
So  many  kings  :  —  not  therefore,  O  my  God  !  — 

But  because  Man  is  parceled  out  in  men 
To-day  ;  because,  for  any  wrongful  blow. 

No  man  not  stricken  asks,  "  I  would  be  told 
Why  thou  dost  thus  ;  "  but  his  heart  whispers  then, 
"  He  is  he,  I  am  I."     By  this  we  know 
That  the  earth  falls  asunder,  being  old. 


ON  THE  "VITA  NUOVA"  OF  DANTE. 

As  he  that  loves  oft  looks  on  the  dear  form 
And  guesses  how  it  grew  to  womanhood, 
And  gladly  would  have  watched  the  beauties  bud 

And  the  mild  fire  of  precious  life  wax  warm  :  — 

So  I,  long  bound  within  the  threefold  charm 
Of  Dante's  love  sublimed  to  heavenly  mood, 
Had  marveled,  touching  his  Beatitude, 

How  grew  such  presence  from  man's  shameful  swarm. 

At  length  within  this  book  I  found  portrayed 

Newborn  that  Paradisal  Love  of  his, 
And  simple  like  a  child  ;  with  whose  clear  aid 

I  understood.     To  such  a  child  as  this, 
Christ,  charging  well  his  chosen  ones,  forbade 

Offeijse  :  "  for  Jo  j  of  such  my  kingdom  is," 


SONNETS.  183 

DANTIS  TENEBILE. 

(In  Memory  of  my  Father?) 

AND  didst  thou  know  indeed,  when  at  the  font 
Together  with  thy  name  thou  gav'st  me  his, 
That  also  on  thy  son  must  Beatrice 

Decline  her  eyes  according  to  her  wont, 

Accepting  me  to  be  of  those  that  haunt 
The  vale  of  magical  dark  mysteries 
AVhere  to  the  hills  her  poet's  foot  track  lies 

And  wisdom's  living  fountain  to  his  chaunt 

Trembles  in  music  ?     This  is  that  steep  land 
Where  he  that  holds  his  journey  stands  at  gaze 
Tow'rd  sunset,  when  the  clouds  like  a  new  height 

Seem  piled  to  climb.     These  things  I  understand  : 

For  here,  where  day  still  soothes  my  lifted  face, 

On  thy  bowed  head,  my  father,  fell  the  night. 


BEAUTY  AND  THE   BIRD. 

SHE  fluted  with  her  mouth  as  when  one  sips, 
And  gently  waved  her  golden  head,  inclin'd 
Outside  his  cage  close  to  the  window -blind  ; 

Till  her  fond  bird,  with  little  turns  and  dips, 

Piped  low  to  her  of  sweet  companionships. 

And  when  he  made  an  end,  some  seed  took  she 
And  fed  him  from  her  tongue,  which  rosily 

Peeped  as  a  piercing  bud  between  her  lips. 

And  like  the  child  in  Chaucer,  on  whose  tongue 
The  Blessed  Mary  laid,  when  he  was  dead, 

A  grain, —  who  straightway  praised  her  name  in  song 
Even  so,  when  she,  a  little  lightly  red, 

Now  turned  on  me  and  laughed,  I  heard  the  throng 
Of  inner  voices  praise  her  golden  head. 


184  SONNETS. 


A  MATCH  WITH  THE  MOON. 

WEARY  already,  weary  miles  to-night 

I  walked  for  bed  :  and  so,  to  get  some  ease, 
I  dogged  the  flying  moon  with  similes. 
And  like  a  wisp  she  doubled  on  my  sight 
In  ponds  ;  and  caught  in  tree-tops  like  a  kite  ; 
And  in  a  globe  of  film  all  vaporish 
Swam  full-faced  like  a  silly  silver  fish  ;  — 
Last  like  a  bubble  shot  the  welkin's  height 
Where  my  road  turned,  and  got  behind  me,  sent 
My  wizened  shadow  craning  round  at  me, 
And    jeered,    "  So,  step    the  measure, —  one    two 

three  ! "  — 

And  if  I  faced  on  her,  looked  innocent. 
But  just  at  parting,  halfway  down  a  dell, 
She  kissed  me  for  good-night.     So  you'll  not  tell. 


AUTUMN  IDLENESS. 

THIS  sunlight  shames  November  where  he  grieves 
In  dead  red  leaves,  and  will  not  let  him  shun 
The  day,  though  bough  with  bough  be  over-run. 

But  with  a  blessing  every  glade  receives 

High  salutation  ;  while  from  hillock-eaves 

The  deer  gaze  calling,  dappled  white  and  dun, 
As  if,  being  foresters  of  old,  the  sun 

Had  marked  them  with  the  shade  of  forest-leaves. 

Here  dawn  to-day  unveiled  her  magic  glass  ; 

Here  noon  now  gives  the  thirst  and  takes  the  dew  ; 
Till  eve  bring  rest  when  other  good  things  pass. 

And  here  the  lost  hours  the  lost  hours  renew 
While  I  still  lead  my  shadow  o'er  the  grass, 

Nor  know,  for  longing,  that  which  I  should  do. 


SONNETS.  185 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  GLEN. 

SWEET  stream-fed  glen,  why  say  "farewell"  to  thee 
Who  far'st  so  well  and  find'st  for  ever  smooth 
The  brow  of  Time  where  man  may  read  no  ruth  ? 

Nay,  do  thou  rather  say  "  farewell  "  to  me, 

Who  now  fare  forth  in  bitterer  fantasy 

Than  erst  was  mine  where  other  shade  might  soothe 
By  other  streams,  what  while  in  fragrant  youth 

The  bliss  of  being  sad  made  melancholy. 

And  yet,  farewell !     For  better  shalt  thou  fare 
When  children  bathe  sweet  faces  in  thy  flow 

And  happy  lovers  blend  sweet  shadows  there 
In  hours  to  come,  than  when  an  hour  ago 

Thine  echoes  had  but  one  man's  sighs  to  bear 

And  thy  trees  whispered  what  he  feared  to  know. 


THE  MONOCHORD. 
(  Written  during  Music. ) 

Is  it  the  moved  air  or  the  moving  sound 

That  is  Life's  self  and  draws  my  life  from  me, 
And  by  instinct  ineffable  decree 

Holds  my  breath  quailing  on  the  bitter  bound  ? 

Nay,  is  it  Life  or  Death,  thus  thunder-crown'd, 
That  'mid  the  tide  of  all  emergency 
Now  notes  my  separate  wave,  and  to  what  sea 

Its  difficult  eddies  labor  in  the  ground  ? 

Oh  !  what  is  this  that  knows  the  road  I  came, 

The  flame  turned  cloud,   the  cloud  returned  to  flame, 

The  lifted  shifted  steeps  and  all  the  way  ?  — 
That  draws  round  me  at  last  this  wind-warm  space, 
And  in  regenerate  rapture  turns  my  face 

Upon  the  devious  coverts  of  dismay  ? 


ROSE  MARY. 


Of  her  two  fights  with  the  Beryl-stone: 
Lost  the  first,  but  the  second  won. 

PART  I. 

"  MARY  mine  tbat  art  Mary's  Rose, 

Come  in  to  me  from  the  garden-close. 

The  sun  sinks  fast  with  the  rising  dew, 

And  we  marked  not  how  the  faint  moon  grew ; 

But  the  hidden  stars  are  calling  you. 

"  Tall  Rose  Mary,  come  to  my  side, 
And  read  the  stars  if  you'd  be  a  bride. 
In  hours  whose  need  was  not  your  own, 
While  you  were  a  young  maid  yet  unknown, 
You've  read  the  stars  in  the  Beryl-stone. 

"  Daughter,  once  more  I  bid  you  read  ; 
But  now  let  it  be  for  your  own  need  : 
Because  to-morrow,  at  break  of  day, 
To  Holy  Cross  he  rides  on  his  way, 
Your  knight  Sir  James  of  Heronhaye. 

"Ere  he  wed  you,  flower  of  mine, 
For  a  heavy  shrift  he  seeks  the  shrine. 
Now  hark  to  my  words  and  do  not  fear  ; 
111  news  next  I  have  for  your  ear  ; 
But  be  you  strong,  and  our  help  is  here. 

"  On  his  road,  as  the  rumor's  rife, 
An  ambush  waits  to  take  his  life. 
He  needs  will  go.  and  will  go  alone  ; 
Where  the  peril  lurks  may  not  be  known  ; 
But  in  this  glass  all  things  are  shown." 


ROSE  MAR  Y.  187 

Pale  Rose  Mary  sank  to  the  floor  :  — 
"  The  night  will  come  if  the  day  is  o'er  !  " 
"  Nay,  heaven  takes  counsel,  star  with  star, 
And  help  shall  reach  your  heart  from  afar  : 
A  bride  you'll  be,  as  a  maid  you  are." 

The  lady  unbound  her  jeweled  zone 
And  drew  from  her  robe  the  Beryl-stone. 
Shaped  it  was  to  a  shadowy  sphere, — 
"World  of  our  world,  the  sun's  compeer, 
That  bears  and  buries  the  toiling  year. 

With  shuddering  light  'twas  stirred  and  strewn 
Like  the  cloud-nest  of  the  wading  moon  : 
Freaked  it.  was  as  the  bubble's  ball, 
Rainbow-hoed  through  a  misty  pall 
Like  the  middle  light  of  the  waterfall. 

Shadows  dwelt  in  its  teeming  girth 
Of  the  known  and  unknown  things  of  earth  ; 
The  cloud  above  and  the  wave  around, — 
The  central  fire  at  the  sphere's  heart  bound, 
Like  doomsday  prisoned  underground. 

A  thousand  years  it  lay  in  the  sea 
With  a  treasure  wrecked  from  Thessaly  ; 
Deep  it  lay  'mid  the  coiled  sea-wrack, 
But  the  ocean-spirits  found  the  track  : 
A  soul  was  lost  to  win  it  back. 

The  lady  upheld  the  wondrous  thing  :  — 
"  111  fare  "  (she  said)  "  with  a  fiend's-fairing: 
But  Moslem  blood  poured  forth  like  wine 
Can  hallow  Hell,  'neath  the  Sacred  Sign  ; 
And  my  lord  brought  this  from  Palestine. 

"Spirits  who  fear  the  Blessed  Rood 
Drove  forth  the  accursed  multitude 
That  heathen  worship  housed  herein, — 
Never  again  such  home  to  win, 
Save  only  by  a  Christian's  sin. 


188  KOSE  MARY. 

"  All  last  night  at  an  altar  fair 

I  burnt  strange  fires  and  strove  with  prayer  ; 

Till  the  flame  paled  to  the  red  sunrise, 

All  rites  I  then  did  solemnize  ; 

And  the  spell  lacks  nothing  but  your  eyes." 

Low  spake  maiden  Rose  Mary  :  — 
"  O  mother  mine,  if  I  should  not  see  !  " 
"  Nay,  daughter,  cover  your  face  no  more, 
But  bend  love's  heart  to  the  hidden  lore, 
And  you  shall  see  now  as  heretofore." 

Paler  yet  were  the  pale  cheeks  grown 
As  the  gray  eyes  sought  the  Beryl-stone  : 
Then  over  her  mother's  lap  leaned  she, 
And  stretched  her  thrilled  throat  passionately, 
And  sighed  from  her  soul,  and  said,  "  I  see." 

Even  as  she  spoke,  they  two  were  'ware 
Of  music-notes  that  fell  through  the  air  ; 
A  chiming  shower  of  strange  device, 
Drop  echoing  drop,  once  twice  and  thrice, 
As  rain  may  fall  in  Paradise. 

An  instant  come,  in  an  instant  gone, 
No  time  there  was  to  think  thereon. 
The  mother  held  the  sphere  on  her  knee  :  — 
"  Lean  this  way  and  speak  low  to  me, 
And  take  no  note  but  of  what  you  see." 

"  I  see  a  man  with  a  besom  gray 

That  sweeps  the  flying  dust  away."     • 

"  Ay,  that  comes  first  in  the  mystic  sphere  ; 

But  now  that  the  way  is  swept  and  clear, 

Heed  well  what  next  you  look  on  there." 

"  Stretched  aloft  and  adown  I  see 
Two  roads  that  part  in  waste-country  : 
The  glen  lies  deep  and  the  ridge  stands  tall ; 
What's  great  below  is  above  seen  small, 
And  the  hill-side  is  the  valley- wall," 


KOSE  MARY.  189 

"  Stream-bank,  daughter,  or  moor  and  moss, 
Both  roads  will  take  to  Holy  Cross. 
The  hills  are  a  weary  waste  to  wage  ; 
But  what  of  the  valley-road's  presage  ? 
That  way  must  tend  his  pilgrimage." 

"  As  'twere  the  turning  leaves  of  a  book, 
The  road  runs  past  me  as  I  look  ; 
Or  it  is  even  as  though  mine  eye 
Should  watch  calm  waters  filled  with  sky 
While  lights  and  clouds  and  wings  went  by." 

"  In  every  covert  seek  a  spear  ; 
They'll  scarce  lie  close  till  he  draws  near." 
"  The  stream  has  spread  to  a  river  now  ; 
The  stiff  blue  sedge  is  deep  in  the  slough, 
But  the  banks  are  bare  of  shrub  or  bough." 

"  Is  there  any  roof  that  near  at  hand 
Might  shelter  yield  to  a  hidden  band  ?  " 
"  On  the  further  bank  I  see  but  one, 
And  a  herdsman  now  in  the  sinking  sun 
Unyokes  his  team  at  the  threshold-stone." 

"  Keep  heedful  watch  by  the  water's  edge, — 
Some  boat  might  lurk  'neath  the  shadowed  sedge." 
"  One  slid  but  now  'twixt  the  winding  shores, 
But  a  peasant  woman  bent  to  the  oars 
And  only  a  young  child  steered  its  course. 

"  Mother,  something  flashed  to  my  sight !  — 

Nay,  it  is  but  the  lapwing's  flight. — 

What  glints  there  like  a  lance  that  flees  ?  — 

Nay,  the  flags  are  stirred  in  the  breeze, 

And  the  water's  bright  through  the  dark-rushes. 

"  Ah  !  vainly  I  search  from  side  to  side  :  — 
Woe's  me  !  and  where  do  the  foemen  hide  ? 
Woe's  me  !  and  perchance  I  pass  them  by, 
And  under  the  new  dawn's  blood-red  sky 
Even  where  I  gaze  the  dead  shall  lie." 


190  ROSE  MARY. 

Said  the  mother  :  "  For  dear  love's  sake, 
Speak  more  low,  lest  the  spell  should  break." 
Said  the  daughter  :  "  By  love's  control, 
My  eyes,  my  words,  are  strained  to  the  goal ; 
But  oh  !  the  voice  that  cries  in  my  soul ! " 

"  Hush,  sweet,  hush  !  be  calm  and  behold." 
"  I  see  two  floodgates  broken  and  old  : 
The  grasses  wave  o'er  the  ruined  weir, 
But  the  bridge  still  leads  to  the  breakwater  ; 
And  —  mother,  mother,  O  mother  dear  !  " 

The  damsel  clung  to  her  mother's  knee, 

And  dared  not  let  the  sln-iek  go  free  ; 

Low  she  crouched  by  the  lady's  chair, 

And  shrank  blindfold  in  her  fallen  hair, 

And  whispering  said,  "  The  spears  are  there  ! " 

The  lady  stooped  aghast  from  her  place, 

And  cleared  the  locks  from  her  daughter's  face. 

"  More's  to  see,  and  she  swoons,  alas  ! 

Look,  look  again,  ere  the  moment  pass  ! 

One  shadow  comes  but  once  to  the  glass. 

"  See  you  there  what  you  saw  but  now  ?  " 
"  I  see  eight  men  'neath  the  willow-bough. 
All  over  the  weir  a  wild  growth's  spread : 
Ah  me  !  it  will  hide  a  living  head 
As  well  as  the  water  hides  the  dead. 

"  They  lie  by  the  broken  water-gate 

As  men  who  have  a  while  to  wait. 

The  chief's  high  lance  has  a  blazoned  scroll, — 

He  seems  some  lord  of  tithe  and  toll 

With  seven  squires  to  his  bannerole. 

"  The  little  pennon  quakes  in  the  air, 

I  cannot  trace  the  blazon  there  :  — 

Ah  !  now  I  can  see  the  field  of  blue, 

The  spurs  and  the  merlins  two  and  two  ;  — 

It  is  the  Warden  of  Holycleugh  !  " 


ROSE  MARY.  191 

"God  be  thanked  for  the  thing  we  know  ! 
You  have  named  your  good  knight's  mortal  foe. 
Last  Shrovetide  in  the  tourney-game 
He  sought  his  life  by  treasonous  shame  ; 
And  this  way  now  doth  he  seek  the  same. 

"  So,  fair  lord,  such  a  thing  you  are  ! 
But  we  too  watch  till  the  morning  star. 
Well,  June  is  kind  and  the  moon  is  clear  : 
Saint  Judas  send  you  a  merry  cheer 
For  the  night  you  lie  at  Warisweir  ! 

"  Now,  sweet  daughter,  but  one  more  sight, 
And  you  may  lie  soft  and  sleep  to-night. 
We  know  in  the  vale  what  perils  be  : 
Now  look  once  more  in  the  glass,  and  see 
If  over  the  hills  the  road  lies  free." 

Rose  Mary  pressed  to  her  mother's  cheek, 
And  almost  smiled  but  did  not  speak  ; 
Then  turned  again  to  the  saving  spell, 
With  eyes  to  search  and  with  lips  to  tell 
The  heart  of  things  invisible. 

"  Again  the  shape  with  the  besom  gray 
Comes  back  to  sweep  the  clouds  away. 
Again  I  stand  where  the  roads  divide  ; 
But  now  all's  near  on  the  steep  hillside, 
And  a  thread  far  down  is  the  rivertide." 

"  Ay,  child,  your  road  is  o'er  moor  and  moss, 

Past  Holycleugh  to  Holy  Cross. 

Our  hunters  lurk  in  the  valley's  wake, 

As  they  knew  which  way  the  chase  would  take  : 

Yet  search  the  hills  for  your  true  love's  sake." 

"  Swift  and  swifter  the  waste  runs  by, 
And  naught  I  see  but  the  heath  and  the  sky  ; 
No  brake  is  there  that  could  hide  a  spear, 
And  the  gaps  to  a  horseman's  sight  lie  clear  ; 
Still  past  it  goes,  and  there's  naught  to  fear." 


102  KOS£  MARY. 

"  Fear  no  trap  that  you  cannot  see, — 

They'd  not  lurk  yet  too  warily. 

Below  by  the  weir  they  lie  in  sight, 

And  take  no  heed  how  they  pass  the  night 

Till  close  they  crouch  with  the  morning  light." 

"  The  road  shifts  ever  and  brings  in  view 
Now  first  the  heights  of  Holycleugh  : 
Dark  they  stand  o'er  the  vale  below, 
And  hide  that  heaven  which  yet  shall  show 
The  thing  their  master's  heart  doth  know. 

"  Where  the  road  looks  to  the  castle  steep, 
There  are  seven  hill-clefts  wide  and  deep  : 
Six  mine  eyes  can  search  as  they  list, 
But  the  seventh  hollow  is  brimmed  with  mist ; 
If  aught  were  there,  it  might  not  be  wist." 

"  Small  hope,  my  girl,  for  a  helm  to  hide 
In  mists  that  cling  to  a  wild  moorside  : 
Soon  they  melt  with  the  wind  and  sun, 
And  scarce  would  wait  such  deeds  to  be  done : 
God  send  their  snares  be  the  worst  to  shun." 

"  Still  the  road  winds  ever  anew 
As  it  hastens  on  towards  Holycleugh  ; 
And  ever  the  great  walls  loom  more  near, 
Till  the  castle-shadow,  steep  and  sheer, 
Drifts  like  a  cloud,  and  the  sky  is  clear." 

"Enough,  my  daughter,"  the  mother  said, 
And  took  to  her  breast  the  bending  head  ; 
"  Rest,  poor  head,  with  my  heart  below, 
While  love  still  lulls  you  as  long  ago  : 
For  all  is  learnt  that  we  need  to  know. 

"  Long  the  miles  and  many  the  hours 
From  the  castle-height  to  the  abbey-towers  ; 
But  here  the  journey  has  no  more  dread  ; 
Too  thick  with  life  is  the  whole  road  spread 
For  murder's  trembling  foot  to  tread." 


ROSE  MARY.  193 

She  gazed  on  the  Beryl-stone  full  fain 
Ere  she  wrapped  it  close  in  her  robe  again  : 
The  flickering  shades  were  dusk  and  dun, 
And  the  lights  throbbed  faint  in  unison, 
Like  a  high  heart  when  a  race  is  run. 

As  the  globe  slid  to  its  silken  gloom, 
Once  more  a  music  rained  through  the  room; 
Low  it  splashed  like  a  sweet  star-spray, 
And  sobbed  like  tears  at  the  heart  of  May, 
And  died  as  laughter  dies  away. 

The  lady  held  her  breath  for  a  space, 

And  then  she  looked  in  her  daughter's  face  : 

But  wan  Rose  Mary  had  never  heard  ; 

Deep  asleep  like  a  sheltered  bird 

She  lay  with  the  long  spell  minister'd. 

"  Ah  !  and  yet  I  must  leave  you,  dear, 

For  what  you  have  seen  your  knight  must  hear. 

Within  four  days,  by  the  help  of  God, 

He  comes  back  safe  to  his  heart's  abode  : 

Be  sure  he  shall  shun  the  valley-road." 

Rose  Mary  sank  with  a  broken  moan, 
And  lay  in  the  chair  and  slept  alone, 
Weary,  lifeless,  heavy  as  lead  : 
Long  it  was  ere  she  raised  her  head 
And  rose  up  all  discomforted. 

She  searched  her  brain  for  a  vanished  thing, 

And  clasped  her  brows,  remembering  ; 

Then  knelt  and  lifted  her  eyes  in  awe, 

And  sighed  with  a  long  sigh  sweet  to  draw  :  — 

"  Thank  God,  thank  God,  thank  God  I  saw  !  " 

The  lady  had  left  her  as  she  lay, 
To  seek  the  Knight  of  Heronhaye. 
But  first  she  clomb  by  a  secret  stair, 
And  knelt  at  a  carven  altar  fair, 
And  laid  the  precious  Beryl  there. 
13 


194  ROSE  MARY. 

Its  girth  was  graved  with  a  mystic  rune 

In  a  tongue  long  dead  'neath  sun  and  moon  : 

A  priest  of  the  Holy  Sepulcher 

Read  that  writing  and  did  not  err  ; 

And  her  lord  had  told  its  sense  to  her. 

She  breathed  the  words  in  an  undertone  :  — 

"  None  sees  here  but  the  pure  alone" 

"  And  oh  !  "  she  said,  "  what  rose  may  be 

In  Mary's  bower  more  pure  to  see 

Than  my  own  sweet  maiden  Rose  Mary  ?  " 


BERYL-SONG. 

"We  whose  home  is  the  Beryl, 
Fire-spirits  of  dread  desire, 
Who  entered  in 

By  a  secret  sin,  [sterile, — 

'Gainst  whom  all  poicers  that  strive  with  ours  are 

We  cry,  Woe  to  thee,  mother  ! 
What  hast  thou  taught  her,  the  girl  thy  daughter, 

That  she  and  none  other 

Should  this  dark  morrow  to  her  deadly  sorrow  imperil? 
What  were  her  eyes 
But  the  fiend's  own  spies, 

O  mother, 
And  shall  We  not  fee  her,  our  proper  prophet  and  seer  f 

Go  to  her,  mother, 
Even  thou,  yea  thou  and  none  other, 

Thou,  from  the  Beryl: 
Her  fee  must  thou  take  her, 
Her  fee  that  We  send,  and  make  her, 
Even  in  this  hour,  her  sin^s  unsheltered  avower. 
Whose  steed  did  neigh, 

Riderless,  bridle-less, 
At  her  gate  before  it  was  day  ? 
Lo  !  where  doth  hover 
The  soul  of  her  lover? 


ROSE  MAR  Y.  195 

She  sealed  his  doom,  she,  she  was  the  sworn  approver, — 
Whose  eyes  were  so  wondrous  wise, 
Yet  blind,  ah  !  blind  to  his  peril ! 
For  stole  not  We  in 
Through  a  love-linked  sin, 

'  Gainst  whom  all  powers  at  war  with  ours  are  sterile, — 
Fire-spirits  of  dread  desire, 
We  whose  home  is  the  Beryl  f 

PAKT    II. 

"  PALE  Rose  Mary,  what  shall  be  done 

With  a  rose  that  Mary  weeps  upon  ?  " 

"  Mother,  let  it  fall  from  the  tree, 

And  never  walk  where  the  strewn  leaves  be 

Till  winds  have  passed  and  the  path  is  free." 

"  Sad  Rose  Mary,  what  shall  be  done 
With  a  cankered  flower  beneath  the  sun  ?  " 
"  Mother,  let  it  wait  for  the  night  ; 
Be  sure  its  shame  shall  be  out  of  sight 
Ere  the  moon  pale  or  the  east  grow  light." 

"  Lost  Rose  Mary,  what  shall  be  done 
With  a  heart  that  is  but  a  broken  one  ?" 
"Mother,  let  it  lie  where  it  must ; 
The  blood  was  drained  with  the  bitter  thrust, 
And  dust  is  all  that  sinks  in  the  dust." 

"  Poor  Rose  Mary,  what  shall  I  do, — 
I,  your  mother,  that  loved  you  ?  " 
"  O  my  mother,  and  is  love  gone  ? 
Then  seek  you  another  love  anon  : 
Who  cares  what  shame  shall  lean  upon  ?  " 

Low  drooped  trembling  Rose  Mary, 
Then  up  as  though  in  a  dream  stood  she. 
"  Come,  my  heart,  it  is  time  to  go  ; 
This  is  the  hour  that  has  whispered  low 
When  thy  pulse  quailed  in  the  nights  we  know. 


196  ROSE  MARY. 

"  Yet  O  my  heart,  thy  shame  has  a  mate 
Who  will  not  leave  thee  desolate. 
Shame  for  shame,  yea  and  sin  for  sin  : 
Yet  peace  at  length  may  our  poor  souls  win 
If  love  for  love  be  found  therein. 

"  O  thou  who  seek'st  our  shrift  to-day," 
She  cried,  "  O  James  of  Heronhaye  — 
Thy  sin  and  mine  was  for  love  alone  ; 
And  oh  !  in  the  sight  of  God  't  is  known 
How  the  heart  has  since  made  heavy  moan. 

"  Three  days  yet !  "  she  said  to  her  heart ; 
"  But  then  he  comes,  and  we  will  not  pai't. 
God,  God  be  thanked  that  I  still  could  see  ! 
Oh  !  he  shall  come  back  assuredly, 
But  where,  alas  !  must  he  seek  for  me  ? 

"  O  my  heart,  what  road  shall  we  roam 
Till  my  wedding-music  fetch  me  home  ? 
For  love  's  shut  from  us  and  bides  afar, 
And  scorn  leans  over  the  bitter  bar 
And  knows  us  now  for  the  thing  we  are." 

Tall  she  stood  with  a  cheek  flushed  high 
And  a  gaze  to  burn  the  heart-strings  by. 
'Twas  the  lightning  flash  o'er  sky  and  plain 
Ere  laboring  thunders  heave  the  chain 
From  the  floodgates  of  the  drowning  rain. 

The  mother  looked  on  the  daughter  still 
As  on  a  hurt  thing  that  's  yet  to  kill. 
Then  wildly  at  length  the  pent  tears  came  ; 
The  love  swelled  high  with  the  swollen  shame, 
And  their  hearts'  tempest  burst  on  them. 

Closely  locked,  they  clung  without  speech, 
And  the  mirrored  souls  shook  each  to  each, 
As  the  cloud-moon  and  the  water-moon 
Shake  face  to  face  when  the  dim  stars  swoon 
In  stormy  bowers  of  the  night's  mid-noon. 


ROSE  MAR  Y.  197 

They  swayed  together,  shuddering  sore, 
Till  the  mother's  heart  could  bear  no  more. 
'Twas  death  to  feel  her  own  breast  shake 
Even  to  the  very  throb  and  ache 
Of  the  burdened  heart  she  still  must  break. 

All  her  sobs  ceased  suddenly, 

And  she  sat  straight  up  but  scarce  could  see. 

"  O  daughter,  where  should  my  speech  begin  ? 

Your  heart  held  fast  its  secret  sin  : 

How  think  you,  child,  that  I  read  therein  ?  " 

"  Ah  me  !  but  I  thought  not  how  it  came 
When  your  words  showed  that  you  knew  my 

shame  : 

And  now  that  you  call  me  still  your  own, 
I  half  forget  you  have  ever  known. 
Did  you  read  my  heart  in  the  Beryl-stone  ?  " 

The  lady  answered  her  mournfully  :  — 
"  The  Beryl-stone  has  no  voice  for  me  : 
But  when  you  charged  its  power  to  show 
The  truth  which  none  but  the  pure  may  know, 
Did  naught  speak  once  of  a  coming  woe  ?  " 

Her  hand  was  close  to  her  daughter's  heart, 
And  it  felt  the  life-blood's  sudden  start : 
A  quick  deep  breath  did  the  damsel  draw, 
Like  the  struck  fawn  in  the  oakenshaw  : 
"  O  mother,"  she  cried,  "  but  still  I  saw  !  " 

"  O  child,  my  child,  why  held  you  apart 
From  my  great  love  your  hidden  heart  ? 
Said  I  not  that  all  sin  must  chase 
From  the  spell's  sphere  the  spirits  of  grace, 
And  yield  their  rule  to  the  evil  race? 

"  All  !  would  to  God  I  had  clearly  told 
How  strong  those  powers,  accurst  of  old  : 
Their  heart  is  the  ruined  house  of  lies  ; 
O  girl,  they  can  seal  the  sinful  eyes, 
Or  show  the  truth  by  contraries  !  " 


198  HOSE  MARY. 

The  daughter  sat  as  cold  as  a  stone, 

And  spoke  no  word  but  gazed  alone, 

Nor  moved,  though  her  mother  strove  a  space 

To  clasp  her  round  in  a  close  embrace, 

Because  she  dared  not  see  her  face. 

"  Oh  !  "  at  last  did  the  mother  cry, 
"  Be  sure,  as  he  loved  you,  so  will  I ! 
Ah  !  still  and  dumb  is  the  bride,  I  trow  ; 
But  cold  and  stark  as  the  winter  snow 
Is  the  bridegroom's  heart,  laid  dead  below  ! 

"  Daughter,  daughter,  remember  you 
That  cloud  in  the  hills  by  Holycleugh  ? 
'Twas  a  Hell-screen  hiding  truth  away  : 
There,  not  i'  the  vale,  the  ambush  lay, 
And  thence  was  the  dead  borne  home  to-day." 

Deep  the  flood  and  heavy  the  shock 
When  sea  meets  sea  in  the  riven  rock  : 
But  calm  is  the  pulse  that  shakes  the  sea 
To  the  prisoned  tide  of  doom  set  free 
In  the  breaking  heart  of  Rose  Mary. 

Once  she  sprang  as  the  heifer  springs 

With  the  wolf's  teeth  at  its  red  heart-strings  : 

First  'twas  fire  in  her  breast  and  brain, 

And  then  scarce  hers  but  the  whole  world's  pain, 

As  she  gave  one  shriek  and  sank  again. 

In  the  hair  dark-waved  the  face  lay  white 

As  the  moon  lies  in  the  lap  of  night  ; 

And  as  night  through  which  no  moon  may  dart 

Lies  on  a  pool  in  the  woods  apart, 

So  lay  the  swoon  on  the  weary  heart. 

The  lady  felt  for  the  bosom's  stir, 
And  wildly  kissed  and  called  on  her; 
Then  turned  away  with  a  quick  footfall, 
And  slid  the  secret  door  in  the  wall, 
And  clomb  the  straight  stair's  interval. 


ROSE  MARY.  199 

There  above  in  the  altar-cell 
A  little  fountain  rose  and  fell  : 
She  set  a  flask  to  the  water's  flow, 
And,  backward  hurrying,  sprinkled  now 
The  still  cold  breast  and  the  pallid  brow. 

Scarce  cheek  that  wanned  or  breath  on  the  air, 
Yet  something  told  that  life  was  there. 
"  Ah  !  not  with  the  heart  the  body  dies  ! " 
The  lady  moaned  in  a  bitter  wise  ; 
Then  wrung  her  hands  and  hid  her  eyes. 

"  Alas  !  and  now  may  I  meet  again 

In  the  same  poor  eyes  the  self-same  pain  ? 

What  help  can  I  seek,  such  grief  to  guide  ? 

Ah  !  one  alone  might  avail,"  she  cried, — 

"  The  priest  who  prays  at  the  dead  man's  side." 

The  lady  arose,  and  sped  down  all 
The  winding  stairs  to  the  castle-hall. 
Long-known  valley  and  wood  and  stream, 
As  the  loopholes  passed,  naught  else  did  seem 
Than  the  torn  threads  of  a  broken  dream. 

The  hall  was  full  of  the  castle-folk  ; 
The  women  wept,  but  the  men  scarce  spoke. 
As  the  lady  crossed  the  rush-strewn  floor, 
The  throng  fell  backward,  murmuring  sore, 
And  pressed  outside  round  the  open  door. 

A  stranger  shadow  hung  on  the  hall 
Then  the  dark  pomp  of  a  funeral. 
'Mid  common  sights  that  were  there  alway, 
As  't  were  a  chance  of  the  passing  day, 
On  the  ingle-bench  the  dead  man  lay. 

A  priest  who  passed  by  Holycleugh 

The  tidings  brought  when  the  day  was  new. 

He  guided  them  who  had  fetched  the  dead  ; 

And  since  that  hour,  unwearied, 

He  knelt  in  prayer  at  the  low  bier's  head. 


200  ROSE  MARY. 

Word  had  gone  to  his  own  domain 

That  in  evil  wise  the  knight  was  slain  : 

Soon  the  spears  must  gather  apace 

And  the  hunt  be  hard  on  the  hunters'  trace  ; 

But  all  things  yet  lay  still  for  a  space. 

As  the  lady's  hurried  step  drew  near, 
The  kneeling  priest  looked  up  to  her. 
"  Father,  death  is  a  grievous  thing  ; 
But  oh  ?  the  woe  has  a  shaper  sting 
That  craves  by  me  your  ministering. 

"  Alas  for  the  child  that  should  have  wed 
This  noble  knight  here  lying  dead  ! 
Dead  in  hope,  Avith  all  blessed  boon 
Of  love  thus  rent  from  her  heart  ere  noon, 
I  left  her  laid  in  a  heavy  swoon. 

"  O  haste  to  the  open  bower-chamber 
That 's  topmost  as  you  mount  the  stair  : 
Seek  her,  father,  ere  yet  she  wake  ; 
Your  words,  not  mine,  be  the  first  to  slake 
This  poor  heart's  fire,  for  Christ's  sweet  sake  ! 

"  God  speed  ! "  she   said   as   the  priest    passed 

through, 

"  And  I  ere  long  will  be  with  you." 
Then  low  on  the  hearth  her  knees  sank  prone  j 
She  signed  all  folk  from  the  threshold-stone, 
And  gazed  in  the  dead  man's  face  alone. 

The  fight  for  life  found  record  yet 
In  the  clenched  lips  and  the  teeth  hard-set ; 
The  wrath  from  the  bent  brow  was  not  gone, 
And  stark  in  the  eyes  the  hate  still  shone 
Of  that  they  last  had  looked  upon. 

The  blazoned  coat  was  rent  on  his  breast 
Where  the  golden  field  was  goodliest ; 
But  the  shivered  sword,  close-gripped,  could  tell 
That  the  blood  shed  round  him  where  he  fell 
Was  not  all  his  in  the  distant  dell. 


ROSE  MAR  Y.  201 

The  lady  recked  of  the  corpse  no  whit, 
But  saw  the  soul  and  spoke  to  it  : 
A  light  there  was  in  her  steadfast  eyes, — 
The  fire  of  mortal  tears  and  sighs 
That  pity  and  love  immortalize. 

"  By  thy  death  have  I  learnt  to-day 

Thy  deed,  O  James  of  Heronhaye  ! 

Great  wrong  thou  hast  done  to  me  and  mine  ; 

And  haply  God  hath  wrought  for  a  sign 

By  our  blind  deed  this  doom  of  thine. 

"  Thy  shrift,  alas  !  thou  wast  not  to  win  ; 
But  may  death  shrive  thy  soul  herein  ! 
Full  well  do  I  know  thy  love  should  be 
Even  yet  —  had  life  but  stayed  with  thee  — 
Our  honor's  strong  security." 

She  stooped,  and  said  with  a  sob's  low  stir, — 
"  Peace  be  thine, —  but  what  peace  for  her  ?  " 
But  ere  to  the  brow  her  lips  were  press'd, 
She  marked,  half -hid  in  the  riven  vest, 
A  packet  close  to  the  dead  man's  breast. 

'Neath  surcoat  pierced  and  broken  mail 
It  lay  on  the  blood-stained  bosom  pale. 
The  clot  clung  round  it,  dull  and  dense, 
And  a  faintness  seized  her  mortal  sense 
As  she  reached  her  hand  and  drew  it  thence. 

'Twas  steeped  in  the  heart's  flood  welling  high 
From  the  heart  it  there  had  rested  by  : 
'Twas  glued  to  a  broidered  fragment  gay, — 
A  shred  by  spear-thrust  rent  away 
From  the  heron- wings  of  Heronhaye. 

She  gazed  on  the  thing  with  piteous  eyne  :  — 
"  Alas,  poor  child,  some  pledge  of  thine  ! 
Ah  me  !  in  this  troth  the  hearts  were  twain, 
And  one  hath  ebbed  to  this  crimson  stain, 
And  when  shall  the  other  throb  again  ?  " 


202  ROSE  MARY. 

She  opened  the  packet  heedfully  ; 
The  blood  was  stiff,  and  it  scarce  might  be. 
She  found  but  a  folded  paper  there, 
And  round  it,  twined  with  tenderest  care, 
A  long  bright  tress  of  golden  hair. 

Even  as  she  looked,  she  saw  again 
That  dark-haired  face  in  its  swoon  of  pain : 
It  seemed  a  snake  with  a  golden  sheath 
Crept  near,  as  a  slow  flame  flickereth, 
And  stung  her  daughter's  heart  to  death. 

She  loosed  the  tress,  but  her  hand  did  shake 

As  though  indeed  she  had  touched  a  snake  ; 

And  next  she  undid  the  paper's  fold, 

But  that  too  trembled  in  her  hold, 

And  the  sense  scarce  grasped  the  tale  it  told. 

"  My  heart's  sweet  lord,"  ('twas  thus  she  read,) 
"  At  length  our  love  is  garlanded. 
"  At  Holy  Cross,  within  eight  days'  space, 
"  I  seek  my  shrift  ;  and  the  time  and  place 
"  Shall  fit  thee  too  for  thy  soul's  good  grace. 

"  From  Holycleugh  on  the  seventh  day 
"  My  brother  rides,  and  bides  away  : 
"And  long  or  e'er  he  is  back,  mine  own, 
"  Afar  where  the  face  of  fear's  unknown 
"  We  shall  be  safe  with  our  love  alone. 

"  Ere  yet  at  the  shrine  my  knees  I  bow, 

"  I  shear  one  tress  for  our  holy  vow. 

"  As  round  these  words  these  threads  I  wind, 

"So,  eight  days  hence,  shall  our  loves  be  twined, 

"  Says  my  lord's  poor  lady,  JOCELIND." 

She  read  it  twice,  with  a  brain  in  thrall, 
And  then  its  echo  told  her  all. 
O'er  brows  low-fall'n  her  hands  she  drew  :  — 
"  O  God  !  "  she  said,  as  her  hands  fell  too, — 
"  The  Warden's  sister  of  Holycleugh  !  " 


ROSEMARY.  203 

She  rose  upright  with  a  long  low  moan, 
And  stared  in  the  dead  man's  face  new-known. 
Had  it  lived  indeed  ?     She  scarce  could  tell : 
'T\vas  a  cloud  where  fiends  had  come  to  dwell, — 
A  mask  that  hung  on  the  gate  of  Hell. 

She  lifted  the  lock  of  gleaming  hair 

And  smote  the  lips  and  left  it  there. 

"  Here  's  gold  that  Hell  shall  take  for  thy  toll ! 

Full  well  hath  thy  treason  found  its  goal, 

O  thou  dead  body  and  damned  soul !  " 

She  turned,  sore  dazed,  for  a  voice  was  near, 
And  she  knew  that  some  one  called  to  her. 
On  many  a  column  fair  and  tall 
A  high  court  ran  round  the  castle-hall  ; 
And  thence  it  was  that  the  priest  did  call. 

"  I  sought  your  child  where  you  bade  me  go, 
And  in  rooms  around  and  rooms  below  ; 
But  where,  alas  !  may  the  maiden  be  ? 
Fear  naught, —  we  shall  find  her  speedily, — 
But  come,  come  hither,  and  seek  with  me." 

She  reached  the  stair  like  a  lifelorn  thing, 
But  hastened  upward  murmuring  :  — 
"  Yea,  Death's  is  a  face  that's  fell  to  see  ; 
But  bitterer  pang  Life  hoards  for  thee, 
Thou  broken  heart  of  Rose  Mary  !  " 


BERYL-SONG. 

We  whose  throne  is  the  Beryl, 
Dire-gifted  spirits  of  fire, 
Who  for  a  twin 
Leash  Sorrow  to  Sin, 

Who  on  no  flower  refrain  to  lour  with  peril, — 
We  cry, —  0  desolate  daughter  ! 


204  ROSE  MAR  Y. 

Thou  and  thy  mother  share  newer  shame  with  each  other 

Tfian  last  night's  slaughter. 
Aicake  and  tremble,  for  our  curses  assemble! 
What  more,  that  thou  know'st  not  yet, — 

That  life  nor  death  shall  forget  f 
No  help  from  Heaven, —  thy  woes  heart-riven  are 
sterile  ! 

O,  once  a  maiden, 
With  yet  worse  sorrow  can  any  morrow  be  laden  ¥ 

It  waits  for  thee, 
It  looms,  it  must  be, 
O  lost  among  women, — 
It  comes  and  thou  canst  not  flee. 

Amen  to  the  omen, 
Says  the  voice  of  the  Beryl. 

Thou  sleep1  st?     Awake, — 
What  dar'st  thou  yet  for  his  sake, 
Who  each  for  other  did  God's  own  future  imperil? 

Dost  dare  to  live 
'Mid  the  pangs  each  hour  must  give? 

Nay,  rather  die, — 

With  him  thy  lover  ^neath  HeWs  cloud-cover  to  fly, — 
Hopeless,  yet  not  apart, 
Cling  heart  to  heart, 

And  beat  through  the  nether  storm-eddying    icinds 
together  f 

Shall  this  be  so  ? 
There  thou  shalt  meet  him,  but  may'st  thou  greet  him  f 

ah  no! 
He  loves,  but  thee  he  hoped  never  more  to  see, — 

He  sighed  as  he  died, 
But  with  never  a  thouyhtfor  thee. 

Alone! 

Alone,  for  ever  alone, — 

Whose  eyes  were  such  wondrous  spies  for  the  fate 
foreshown! 

Lo  !  have  not  We  leashed  the  twin 
Of  endless  Sorrow  to  Sin, — 
Who  on  no  flower  refrain  to  lour  with  peril, — 
Dire-gifted  spirits  of  fire. 
We  whose  throne  is  the  Beryl? 


ROSE  MARY.  205 

PART  in. 

A  swoon  that  breaks  is  the  whelming  wave 
When  help  comes  late  but  still  can  save. 
With  all  blind  throes  is  the  instant  rife, — 
Hurtling  clangor  and  clouds  at  strife, — 
The  breath  of  death,  but  the  kiss  of  life. 

The  night  lay  deep  on  Rose  Mary's  heart, 
For  her  swoon  was  death's  kind  counterpart : 
The  dawn  broke  dim  on  Hose  Mary's  soul, — 
No  hill-crown's  heavenly  aureole, 
But  a  wild  gleam  on  a  shaken  shoal. 

Her  senses  gasped  in  the  sudden  air, 

And  she  looked  around,  but  none  was  there. 

She  felt  the  slackening  frost  distill 

Through  her  blood  the  last  ooze  dull  and  chill  : 

Her  lids  were  dry  and  her  lips  were  still. 

Her  tears  had  flooded  her  heart  again  ; 
As  after  a  long  day's  bitter  rain, 
At  dusk  when  the  wet  flower-cups  shrink, 
The  drops  run  in  from  the  beaded  brink, 
And  all  the  close-shut  petals  drink. 

Again  her  s^ighs  on  her  heart  were  rolled  ; 
As  the  wind  that  long  has  swept  the  wold, — 
Whose  moan  was  made  with  the  moaning  sea, — 
Beats  out  its  breath  in  the  last  torn  tree, 
And  sinks  at  length  in  lethargy. 

She  knew  she  had  waded  bosom-deep 
Along  death's  bank  in  the  sedge  of  sleep  : 
All  else  was  lost  to  her  clouded  mind  ; 
Nor,  looking  back,  could  she  see  defin'd 
O'er  the  dim  dumb  waste  what  lay  behind. 

Slowly  fades  the  sun  from  the  wall 
Till  day  lies  dead  on  the  sun-dial : 


206  ROSE  MAR  Y. 

And  now  in  Rose  Mary's  lifted  eye 
'Twas  shadow  alone  that  made  reply 
To  the  set  face  of  the  soul's  dark  sky. 

Yet  still  through  her  soul  there  wandered  past 
Dread  phantoms  borne  on  a  wailing  blast, — 
Death  and  sorrow  and  sin  and  shame ; 
And,  murmured  still,  to  her  lips  there  came 
Her  mother's  and  her  lover's  name. 

How  to  ask,  and  what  thing  to  know  ? 
She  might  not  stay  and  she  dared  not  go. 
From  fires  unseen  these  smoke-clouds  curled  ; 
But  where  did  the  hidden  curse  lie  furled  ? 
And  how  to  seek  through  the  weary  world  ? 

With  toiling  breath  she*  rose  from  the  floor 
And  dragged  her  steps  to  an  open  door  : 
'Twas  the  secret  panel  standing  wide, 
As  the  lady's  hand  had  let  it  bide 
In  hastening  back  to  her  daughter's  side. 

She  passed,  but  reeled  with  a  dizzy  brain 
And  smote  the  door  which  closed  again. 
She  stood  within  by  the  darkling  sfair, 
But  her  feet  might  mount  more  freely  there, — 
'Twas  the  open  light  most  blinded  her. 

Within  her  mind  no  wonder  grew 

At  the  secret  path  she  never  knew  : 

All  ways  alike  were  strange  to  her  now, — 

One  field  bare-ridged  from  the  spirit's  plow, 

One  thicket  black  with  the  cypress-bough. 

Once  she  thought  that  she  heard  her  name  ; 
And  she  paused,  but  knew  not  whence  it  came. 
Down  the  shadowed  stair  a  faint  ray  fell 
That  guided  the  weary  footsteps  well 
Till  it  led  her  up  to  the  altar-cell. 


ROSE  MARY.  207 

No  change  there  was  on  Rose  Mary's  face 
As  she  leaned  in  the  portal's  narrow  space  : 
Still  she  stood  by  the  pillar's  stem, 
Hand  and  bosom  and  garment's  hem, 
As  the  soul  stands  by  at  the  requiem. 

The  altar-cell  was  a  dome  low-lit, 

And  a  veil  hung  in  the  midst  of  it  : 

At  the  pole-points  of  its  circling  girth 

Four  symbols  stood  of  the  world's  first  birth, — 

Air  and  water  and  fire  and  earth. 

To  the  north,  a  fountain  glittered  free  ; 
To  the  south,  there  glowed  a  red  fruit-tree  ; 
To  the  east,  a  lamp  flamed  high  and  fair  ; 
To  the  west,  a  crystal  casket  rare 
Held  fast  a  cloud  of  the  fields  of  air. 

The  painted  walls  were  a  mystic  show 

Of  time's  ebb-tide  and  overflow  ; 

His  hoards  long-locked  and  conquering  key, 

His  service-fires  that  in  heaven  be, 

And  earth-wheels  whirled  perpetually. 

Rose  Mary  gazed  from  the  open  door 
As  on  idle  things  she  cared  not  for, — 
The  fleeting  shapes  of  an  empty  tale  ; 
Then  stepped  with  a  heedless  visage  pale, 
And  lifted  aside  the  altar- veil. 

The  altar  stood  from  its  curved  recess 
In  a  coiling  serpent's  life-likeness  : 
Even  such  a  serpent  evermore 
Lies  deep  asleep  at  the  world's  dark  core 
Till  the  last  Voice  shake  the  sea  and  shore. 

From  the  altar-cloth  a  book  rose  spread 
And  tapers  burned  at  the  altar-head  ; 
And  there  in  the  altar-midst  alone, 
'Twixt  wings  of  a  sculptured  beast  unknown, 
Rose  Mary  saw  the  Beryl-stone. 


208  ROSE  MARY. 

Firm  it  sat  'twixt  the  hollowed  wings, 
As  an  orb  sits  in  the  hand  of  kings : 
And  lo  !  for  that  Foe  whose  curse  far-flown 
Had  bound  her  life  with  a  burning  zone, 
Rose  Mary  knew  the  Beryl-stone. 

Dread  is  the  meteor's  blazing  sphere 
When  the  poles  throb  to  its  blind  career  ; 
But  not  with  a  light  more  grim  and  ghast 
Thereby  is  the  future  doom  forecast, 
Than  now  this  sight  brought  back  the  past. 

The  hours  and  minutes  seemed  to  whirr 
In  a  clanging  swarm  that  deafened  her  ; 
They  stung  her  heart  to  a  writhing  flame, 
And  marshaled  past  in  its  glare  they  came, — 
Death  and  sorrow  and  sin  and  shame. 

Round  the  Beryl's  sphere  she  saw  them  pass 
And  mock  her  eyes  from  the  fated  glass  : 
One  by  one  in  a  fiery  train 
The  dead  hours  seemed  to  wax  and  wane, 
And  burned  till  all  was  known  again. 

From  the  drained  heart's  fount  there  rose  no  cry, 
There  sprang  no  tears,  for  the  source  was  dry. 
Held  in  the  hand  of  some  heavy  law, 
Her  eyes  she  might  not  once  withdraw 
Nor  shrink  away  from  the  thing  she  saw. 

Even  as  she  gazed,  through  all  her  blood 
The  flame  was  quenched  in  a  coming  flood  : 
Out  of  the  depth  of  the  hollow  gloom 
On  her  soul's  bare  sands  she  felt  it  boom, — 
The  measured  tide  of  a  sea  of  doom. 

Three  steps  she  took  through  the  altar-gate, 
And  her  neck  reared  and  her  arms  grew  straight : 
The  sinews  clenched  like  a  serpent's  throe, 
And  the  face  was  white  in  the  dark  hair's  flow, 
As  her  hate  beheld  what  lay  below. 


KOSE  MARY.  209 

Dumb  she  stood  in  her  malisons, — 
A  silver  statue  tressed  with  bronze : 
As  the  fabled  head  by  Perseus  mown, 
It  seemed  in  sooth  that  her  gaze  alone 
Had  turned  the  carven  shapes  to  stone. 

O'er  the  altar-sides  on  either  hand 
There  hung  a  dinted  helm  and  brand  : 
By  strength  thereof,  'neath  the  Sacred  Sign, 
That  bitter  gift  o'er  the  salt  sea-brine 
Her  father  brought  from  Palestine. 

Rose  Mary  moved  with  a  stern  accord 

And  reached  her  hand  to  her  father's  sword  ; 

Nor  did  she  stir  her  gaze  one  whit 

From  the  thing  whereon  her  brows  were  knit ; 

But  gazing  still,  she  spoke  to  it. 

"  O  ye,  three  times  accurst,"  she  said, 
"  By  whom  this  stone  is  tenanted  ! 
Lo  !  here  ye  came  by  a  strong  sin's  might ; 
Yet  a  sinner's  hand  that's  weak  to  smite 
Shall  send  you  hence  ere  the  day  be  night. 

"  This  hour  a  clear  voice  bade  me  know 
My  hand  shall  work  your  overthrow  : 
Another  thing  in  mine  ear  it  spake, — 
With  the  broken  spell  my  life  shall  break. 
I  thank  Thee,  God,  for  the  dear  death's  sake  ! 

"  And  he  Thy  heavenly  minister 

"Who  swayed  ere  while  this  spell-bound  sphere, — 

My  parting  soul  let  him  haste  to  greet, 

And  none  but  he  be  guide  for  my  feet 

To  where  Thy  rest  is  made  complete." 

Then  deep  she  breathed,  with  a  tender  moan  :  — 
"  My  love,  my  lord,  my  only  one  ! 
Even  as  I  held  the  cursed  clue, 
When  thee,  through  me,  these  foul  ones  slew, — 
By  mine  own  deed  shall  they  slay  me  too  ! 
— 14 


210  ROSE  MAR  y. 

"  Even  while  they  speed  to  Hell,  my  love, 

Two  hearts  shall  meet  in  Heaven  above. 

Our  shrift  thou  sought'st,  but  mightst  not  bring  : 

And  oh  !  for  me  'tis  a  blessed  thing 

To  work  hereby  our  ransoming. 

"  One  were  our  hearts  in  joy  and  pain, 
And  our  souls  e'en  now  grow  one  again. 
And  O  my  love  if  our  souls  are  three, 
O  thine  and  mine  shall  the  third  soul  be, — 
One  threefold  love  eternally." 

Her  eyes  were  soft  as  she  spoke  apart, 

And  the  lips  smiled  to  the  broken  heart  : 

But  the  glance  was  dark  and  the  forehead  scored 

With  the  bitter  frown  of  hate  restored, 

As  her  two  hands  swung  the  heavy  sword. 

Three  steps  back  from  her  foe  she  trod  :  — 
"  Love,  for  thy  sake  !     In  Thy  Name,  O  God  !  " 
In  the  fair  white  hands  small  strength  was  shown  ; 
Yet  the  blade   flashed  high  and   the   edge  fell 

prone, 
And  she  cleft  the  heart  of  the  Beryl-stone. 

What  living  flesh  in  the  thunder-cloud 

Hath  sat  and  felt  heaven  cry  aloud  ? 

Or  known  how  the  levin's  pulse  may  beat  ? 

Or  wrapped  the  hour  when  the  whirlwinds  meet 

About  its  breast  for  a  winding-sheet  ? 

Who  hath  crouched  at  the  world's  deep  heart 
While  the  earthquake  rends  its  loins  apart  ? 
Or  walked  far  under  the  seething  main 
While  overheard  the  heavens  ordain 
The  tempest-towers  of  the  hurricane  ? 

Who  hath  seen  or  what  ear  hath  heard 
The  secret  things  unregister'd 
Of  the  place  where  all  is  past  and  done 
And  tears  and  laughter  sound  as  one 
In  Hell's  unhallowed  unison  ? 


XOSE  MARY.  811 

•Nay,  is  it  writ  how  the  fiends  despair 
In  earth  and  water  and  fire  and  air  ? 
Even  so  no  mortal  tongue  may  tell 
How  to  the  clang  of  the  sword  that  fell 
The  echoes  shook  the  altar-cell. 

When  all  was  still  on  the  air  again 
The  Beryl-stone  lay  cleft  in  twain  ; 
The  veil  was  rent  from  the  riven  dome  ; 
And  every  wind  that's  winged  to  roam 
Might  have  the  ruined  place  for  home. 

The  fountain  no  more  glittered  free  ; 
The  fruit  hung  dead  on  the  leafless  tree  ; 
The  flame  of  the  lamp  had  ceased  to  flare ; 
And  the  crystal  casket  shattered  there 
Was  emptied  now  of  its  cloud  of  air. 

And  lo  !  on  the  ground  Rose  Mary  lay, 
With  a  cold  brow  like  the  snows  ere  May, 
With  a  cold  breast  like  the  earth  till  Spring, 
With  such  a  smile  as  the  June  days  bring 
When  the  year  grows  warm  for  harvesting. 

The  death  she  had  won  might  leave  no  trace 
On  the  soft  sweet  form  and  gentle  face : 
In  a  gracious  sleep  she  seemed  to  lie  ; 
And  over  her  head  her  hand  on  high 
Held  fast  the  sword  she  triumphed  by. 

'Twas  then  a  clear  voice  said  in  the  room  :  — 
"  Behold  the  end  of  the  heavy  doom. 
O  come, —  for  thy  bitter  love's  sake  blest ; 
By  a  sweet  path  now  tliou  journeyest, 
And  I  will  lead  thee  to  thy  rest. 

"Me  thy  sin  by  Heaven's  sore  ban 
Did  chase  erewhile  from  the  talisman  : 
But  to  my  heart,  as  a  conquered  home, 
In  glory  of  strength  thy  footsteps  come 
Who  hast  thus  cast  forth  my  foes  therefrom. 


212  ROSE  MARY. 

"  Already  thy  heart  remembereth 
No  more  his  name  thou  sought'st  in  death  : 
For  under  all  deeps,  all  heights  above, — 
So  wide  the  gulf  in  the  midst  thereof, — 
Are  Hell  of  Treason  and  Heaven  of  Love. 

"  Thee,  true  soul,  shall  thy  truth  prefer 
To  blessed  Mary's  rose-bower  : 
Warmed  and  lit  is  thy  place  afar 
With  guerdon-fires  of  the  sweet  Love-star 
Where  hearts  of  steadfast  lovers  are  :  — 

"Though  naught  for  the  poor  corpse  lying  here 
Remain  to-day  but  the  cold  white  bier, 
But  burial-chaunt  and  bended  knee, 
But  sighs  and  tears  that  heaviest  be, 
But  rent  rose-flower  and  rosemary." 


BERYL-SONG. 

We,  cast  forth  from  the  Beryl, 
Gyre-circling  spirits  of  fire, 
Whose  pangs  begin 
With  God  's  grace  to  sin, 
For  whose  spent  powers  the  immortal  hours  are  sterile, — 

Woe  I  must  We  behold  this  mother 
Find  grace  in  her  dead  child's  face,  and  doubt  of 

none  other 

But  that  perfect  pardon,  alas  !  hath  assured  her  guer- 
don? 

Woe  !  must  We  behold  this  daughter, 
Made  clean  from  the  soil  of  sin  wherewith  We  had 
fraught  her, 

Shake  off  a  man's  blood  like  water  ? 
Write  up  her  story 
On  the  gate  of  Heaven's  glory, 
Whom  there  We  behold  so  fair  in  shining  apparel. 
And  beneath  her  the  ruin 


KOSE  MARY.  213 

Of  our  own  undoing  ! 

Alas,  the  Beryl! 
We  had  for  a  foeman 
But  one  weak  woman  j 

In  one  day's  strife, 
Her  hope  fell  dead  from  her  life  ; 
And  yet  no  iron, 
Her  soul  to  environ, 

Could  this  manslayer,  this  false  soothsayer  imperil! 
Lo,  where  she  bows 
In  the  Holy  House  ! 

Who  now  shall  dissever  her  soul  from  its  joy  for  ever, 
While  every  ditty 
Of  love  and  plentiful  pity 
Fills  the  Wliite  City, 

And  the  floor  of  Heaven  to  her  feet  for  ever  is 
given  f 

Hark,  a  voice  cries  "  Flee  !  " 
Woe  !  woe  !  what  shelter  have  We, 
Whose  pangs  begin 
With  God's  grace  to  sin, 

For  whose  spent  powers  the  immortal  hours  are  sterile, 
Gyre-circling  spirits  of  Jire, 
We,  cast  forth  from  the  Beryl? 


THE  WHITE  SHIP. 


HENRY  I.  OF  ENGLAND. —  SOTH  Nov.,  1120. 

BY  none  but  me  can  the  tale  be  told, 
The  butcher  of  Rouen,  poor  Berold. 

(Lands  are  swayed  by  a  King  on  a  throne.) 
'Twas  a  royal  train  put  forth  to  sea, 
Yet  the  tale  can  be  told  by  none  but  me. 

(The  sea  hath  no  King  but  God  alone.) 

King  Henry  held  it  as  life's  whole  gain 
That  after  his  death  his  son  should  reign. 

'Twas  so  in  my  youth  I  heard  men  say, 
And  my  old  age  calls  it  back  to-day. 

King  Henry  of  England's  realm  was  he, 
And  Henry  Duke  of  Normandy. 

The  times  had  changed  when  on  either  coast 
"  Clerkly  Harry  "  was  all  his  boast. 

Of  ruthless  strokes  full  many  an  one 

He  had  struck  to  crown  himself  and  his  son  ; 

And  his  elder  brother's  eyes  were  gone. 

And  when  to  the  chase  his  court  would  crowd, 

The  poor  flung  plowshares  on  his  road, 

And  shrieked  :     "  Our  cry  is  from  King  to  God  !  " 

But  all  the  chiefs  of  the  English  land 
Had  knelt  and  kissed  the  Prince's  hand. 

And  next  with  his  son  he  sailed  to  France 
To  claim  the  Norman  allegiance  : 


THE   WHITE  SHIP.  215 

And  every  baron  in  Normandy 
Had  taken  the  oath  of  fealty. 

'TVas  sworn  and  sealed,  and  the  day  had  come 
When  the  King  and  the  Prince  might  journey  home  : 

For  Christmas  cheer  is  to  home  hearts  dear, 
And  Christmas  now  was  drawing  near. 

Stout  Fitz-Stephen  came  to  the  King, — 
A  pilot  famous  in  seafaring  ; 

And  he  held  to  the  King,  in  all  men's  sight, 
A  mark  of  gold  for  his  tribute's  right. 

"  Liege  Lord  !  my  father  guided  the  ship 
From  whose  boat  your  father's  foot  did  slip 
When  he  caught  the  English  soil  in  his  grip, 

"  And  cried  :     '  By  this  clasp  I  claim  command 
O'er  every  rood  of  English  land  ! ' 

"  He  was  borne  to  the  realm  you  rule  o'er  now 
In  that  ship  with  the  archer  carved  at  her  prow  : 

"  And  thither  I'll  bear,  an'  it  be  my  due, 
Your  father's  son  and  his  grandson  too. 

"  The  famed  White  Ship  is  mine  in  the  bay  ; 
From  Harfleur's  harbor  she  sails  to-day, 

"  With  masts  f  air-pennoned  as  Norman  spears 
And  with  fifty  well-tried  mariners." 

Quoth  the  King  :     "  My  ships  are  chosen  each  one, 
But  I'll  not  say  nay  to  Stephen's  son. 

"  My  son  and  daughter  and  fellowship 
Shall  cross  the  water  in  the  White  Ship." 

The  King  set  sail  with  the  eve's  south  wind, 
And  soon  he  left  that  coast  behind. 


216  THE   WHITE  SHIP. 

The  Prince  and  all  his,  a  princely  show, 
Remained  in  the  good  White  Ship  to  go. 

With  noble  knights  and  with  ladies  fair, 
With  courtiers  and  sailors  gathered  there, 
Three  hundred  living  souls  we  were  : 

And  I  Berold  was  the  meanest  hind 
In  all  that  train  to  the  Prince  assign'd. 

The  Prince  was  a  lawless  shameless  youth  ; 
From  his  father's  loins  he  sprang  without  ruth  : 

Eighteen  years  till  then  he  had  seen, 
And  the  devil's  dues  in  him  were  eighteen. 

And  now  he  cried  :     "  Bring  wine  from  below  ; 
Let  the  sailors  revel  ere  yet  they  row  : 

"  Our  speed  shall  o'ertake  my  father's  flight 
Though  we  sail  from  the  harbor  at  midnight." 

The  rowers  made  good  cheer  without  check  ; 

The  lords  and  ladies  obeyed  his  beck  ; 

The  night  was  light,  and  they  danced  on  the  deck. 

But  at  midnight's  stroke  they  cleared  the  bay, 
And  the  White  Ship  furrowed  the  water-way. 

The  sails  were  set,  and  the  oars  kept  tune 

To  the  double  flight  of  the  ship  and  the  moon  : 

Swifter  and  swifter  the  White  Ship  sped 
Till  she  flew  as  the  spirit  flies  from  the  dead  : 

As  white  as  a  lily  glimmered  she 
Like  a  ship's  fair  ghost  upon  the  sea. 

And  the  Prince  cried,  "Friends,  'tis   the  hour  to 

sing ! 
Is  a  songbird's  course  so  swift  on  the  wing  ?  " 


THE   WHITE  SHIP.  217 

And  under  the  winter  stars'  still  throng, 

From  brown  throats,  white    throats,   merry    and 

strong, 
The  knights  and  the  ladies  raised  a  song. 

A  song, —  nay,  a  shrink  that  rent  the  sky, 
That  leaped  o'er  the  deep  !  —  the  grievous  cry 
Of  three  hundred  living  that  now  must  die. 

An  instant  shriek  that  sprang  to  the  shock 
As  the  ship's  keel  felt  the  sunken  rock. 

'Tis  said  that  afar  —  a  shrill  strange  sigh  — 
The  King's  ships  heard  it  and  knew  not  why. 

Pale  Fitz- Stephen  stood  by  the  helm 

'Mid  all  those  folk  that  the  waves  must  whelm. 

A  great  King's  heir  for  the  waves  to  whelm, 
And  the  helpless  pilot  pale  at  the  helm  ! 

The  ship  was  eager  and  sucked  athirst, 

By  the  stealthy  stab  of  the  sharp  reef  pierc'd  : 

And  like  the  moil  round  a  sinking  cup, 
The  waters  against  her  crowded  up. 

A  moment  the  pilot's  senses  spin, — 

The  next  he  snatched  the  prince  'mid  the  din, 

Cut  the  boat  loose,  and  the  youth  leaped  in. 

A  few  friends  leaped  with  him,  standing  near. 

"  Row  !  the  sea's  smooth  and  the  night  is  clear  ?  " 

"  What  !  none  to  be  saved  but  these  and  I  ?  " 
"  Row,  row  as  you'd  live  !     All  here  must  die  ! " 

Out  of  the  churn  of  the  choking  ship, 
Which  the  gulf  grapples  and  the  waves  strip, 
They  struck  with  the  strained  oars'  flash  and  dip. 


218  THE   WHITE  SHIP. 

'Twas  then  o'er  the  splitting  bulwarks'  brim 
The  Prince's  sister  screamed  to  him. 

He  gazed  aloft,  still  rowing  apace; 

And  through  the  whirled  surf  he  knew  her  face. 

To  the  toppling  decks  clave  one  and  all 
As  a  fly  cleaves  to  a  chamber-wall. 

I  Berold  was  clinging  anear  ; 

I  prayed  for  myself  and  quaked  with  fear, 

But  I  saw  his  eyes  as  he  looked  at  her. 

He  knew  her  face  and  he  heard  her  cry, 

And  he  said,  "  Put  back  !  she  must  not  die  ! " 

And  back  with  the  current's  force  they  reel 
Like  a  leaf  that's  drawn  to  a  water-wheel. 

'  Neath  the  ship's  travail  they  scarce  might  float. 
But  he  rose  and  stood  in  the  rocking  boat. 

Low  the  poor  ship  leaned  on  the  tide  : 
O'er  the  naked  keel  as  she  best  might  slide, 
The  sister  toiled  to  the  brother's  side. 

He  reached  an  oar  to  her  from  below, 
And  stiffened  his  arms  to  clutch  her  so. 

But  now  from  the  ship  some  spied  the  boat, 
And  "  saved  !  "  was  the  cry  from  many  a  throat. 

And  down  to  the  boat  they  leaped  and  fell  : 

It  turned  as  a  bucket  turns  in  a  well, 

And  nothing  was  there  but  the  surge  and  swell. 

The  Prince  that  was  and  the  King  to  come, 
There  in  an  instant  gone  to  his  doom, 

Despite  of  all  England's  bended  knee 
And  mauger  the  Norman  fealty  ! 


THE   WHITE  SHIP.  219 

He  was  a  Prince  of  lust  and  pride  ; 

He  showed  no  grace  till  the  hour  he  died. 

When  he  should  be  King,  he  oft  would  vow, 
He'd  yoke  the  peasant  to  his  own  plow. 
O'er  him  the  ships  score  their  furrows  now. 

God  only  knows  where  his  soul  did  wake, 
But  I  saw  him  die  for  his  sister's  sake. 

By  none  but  me  can  the  tale  be  told, 
The  butcher  of  Rouen,  poor  Berold. 

(Lands  are  swayed  by  a  King  on  a  throne.) 

'Twas  a  royal  train  put  forth  to  sea, 
Yet  the  tale  can  be  told  by  none  but  me. 
(The  sea  hath  no  King  but  God  alone.) 

And  now  the  end  came  o'er  the  waters'  womb 
Like  the  last  great  Day  that's  yet  to  come. 

With  prayers  in  vain  and  curses  in  vain, 
The  White  Ship  sundered  on  the  mid-main  : 

And  what  were  men  and  what  was  a  ship 
Were  toys  and  splinters  in  the  sea's  grip. 

I  Berold  was  down  in  the  sea  ; 

And  passing  strange  though  the  thing  may  be* 

Of  dreams  then  known  I  remember  me. 

Blithe  is  the  shout  on  Harfleur's  strand 
When  morning  lights  the  sails  to  land  : 

And  blithe  is  Honfleur's  echoing  gloam 
When  mothers  call  the  children  home  : 

And  high  do  the  bells  of  Rouen  beat 

When  the  body  of  Christ  goes  down  the  street. 

These  things  and  the  like  were  heard  and  shown 
In  a  moment's  trance  'neath  the  sea  alone  ; 


220  THE   WHITE  SHIP. 

And  when  I  rose,  'twas  the  sea  did  seem, 
And  not  these  things,  to  be  all  a  dream. 

The  ship  was  gone  and  the  crowd  was  gone, 
And  the  deep  shuddered  and  the  moon  shone  : 

And  in  a  strait  grasp  my  arms  did  span 

The  mainyard  rent  from  the  mast  where  it  ran  ; 

And  on  it  with  me  was  another  man. 

/ 

Where  lands  were  none  'neath  the  dim  sea-sky, 
We  told  our  names,  that  man  and  I. 

"  O  I  am  Godefroy  de  1'Aigle  hight, 
And  son  am  I  to  a  belted  knight." 

"  And  I  am  Berold  the  butcher's  son 
Who  slays  the  beasts  in  Rouen  town." 

Then  cried  we  upon  God's  name,  as  we 
Did  drift  on  the  bitter  winter  sea. 

But  lo  !  a  third  man  rose  o'er  the  wave, 

And  we  said,  "  Thank  God  !  us  three  may  He  save  ! " 

He  clutched  to  the  yard  with  panting  stare, 
And  we  looked  and  knew  Fitz-Stephen  there. 


clung,  and  "  What  of  the  Prince  ?  "  quoth  he. 
"  Lost,  lost !  "  we  cried.     He  cried,  "  Woe  on  me ! " 
And  loosed  his  hold  and  sank  through  the  sea. 

And  soul  with  soul  again  in  that  space 
We  two  were  together  face  to  face  : 

And  each  knew  each,  as  the  moments  sped, 
Less  for  one  living  than  for  one  dead  : 

And  every  still  star  overhead 

Seemed  an  eye  that  knew  we  were  but  dead. 


THE   WHITE  SHIP.  221 

And  the  hours  passed  ;  till  the  noble's  son 
Sighed,  "  God  be  thy  help  !  my  strength  's  fordone  ! 

"  O  farewell,  friend,  for  I  can  no  more  !" 

"  Christ  take  thee  !  "  I  moaned  ;  and  his  life  was  o'er. 

Three  hundred  souls  were  all  lost  but  one, 
And  I  drifted  over  the  sea  alone. 

At  last  the  morning  rose  on  the  sea 

Like  an  angel's  wing  that  beat  tow'rds  me. 

Sore  numbed  was  I  in  my  sheepskin  coat  ; 
Half  dead  I  hung,  and  might  nothing  note, 
Till  I  woke  sun-warmed  in  a  fisher-boat. 

The  sun  was  high  o'er  the  eastern  brim 
As  I  praised  God  and  gave  thanks  to  Him. 

That  day  I  told  my  tale  to  a  priest, 

Who  charged  me,  till  the  shrift  were  releas'd, 

That  I  should  keep  it  in  mine  own  breast. 

And  with  the  priest  I  thence  did  fare 
To  King  Henry's  court  at  Winchester. 

"We  spoke  with  the  King's  high  chamberlain, 
And  he  wept  and  mourned  again  and  again, 
As  if  his  own  son  had  been  slain  : 

And  round  us  ever  there  crowded  fast 
Great  men  with  faces  all  aghast  : 

And  who  so  bold  that  might  tell  the  thing 
Which  now  they  knew  to  their  lord  the  King  ? 
Much  woe  I  learnt  in  their  communing. 

The  King  had  watched  with  a  heart  sore  stirred 
For  two  whole  days,  and  this  was  the  third  : 

And  still  to  all  his  court  would  he  say, 
"  What  keeps  my  son  so  long  away  ?  " 


222  THE   WHITE  SHIP. 

And  they  said  :  "  The  ports  lie  far  and  wide 
That  skirt  the  swell  of  the  English  tide  ; 

"  And  England's  cliffs  are  not  more  Avhite 
Than  her  women  are,  and  scarce  so  light 
Her  skies  as  their  eyes  are  blue  and  bright ; 

"  And  in  some  port  that  he  reached  from  France 
The  Prince  has  lingered  for  his  pleasaunce." 

But  once  the  King  asked  :  "  What  distant  cry 
Was  that  we  heard  'twixt  the  sea  and  sky  ?" 

And  one  said  :  "  With  such-like  shouts,  pardie  ! 
Do  the  fishers  fling  their  nets  at  sea." 

And  one  :  "  Who  knows  not  the  shrieking  quest 
When  the  sea-mew  misses  its  young  from  the  nest  ?  " 

'Twas  thus  till  now  they  had  soothed  his  dread, 
Albeit  they  knew  not  what  they  said  : 

But  who  should  speak  to-day  of  the  thing 
That  all  knew  there  except  the  King  ? 

Then  pondering  much  they  found  a  way, 
And  met  round  the  King's  high  seat  that  day  : 

And  the  King  sat  with  a  heart  sore  stirred, 
And  seldom  he  spoke  and  seldom  heard. 

'Twas  then  through  the  hall  the  King  was  'ware 
Of  a  little  boy  with  golden  hair, 

As  bright  as  the  golden  poppy  is 

That  the  beach  breeds  for  the  surf  to  kiss  : 

Yet  pale  his  cheek  as  the  thorn  in  Spring, 
And  his  garb  black  like  the  raven's  wing. 

Nothing  heard  but  his  foot  through  the  hall, 
For  now  the  lords  were  silent  all. 


THE   WHITE  SHIP.  223 

And  the  King  wondered,  and  said,  "  Alack  ! 
Who  sends  me  a  fair  boy  dressed  in  black  ? 

"  Why,  sweet  heart,  do  you  pace  through  the  hall 
As  though  my  court  were  a  funeral  ?  " 

Then  lowly  knelt  the  child  at  the  dais, 
And  looked  up  weeping  in  the  King's  face. 

"  O  wherefore  black,  O  King,  ye  may  say, 
For  white  is  the  hue  of  death  to-day. 

"Your  son  and  all  his  fellowship 

Lie  low  in  the  sea  with  the  White  Ship." 

King  Henry  fell  as  a  man  struck  dead  ; 
And  speechless  still  he  stared  from  his  bed 
When  to  him  next  day  my  rede  I  read. 

There's  many  an  hour  must  needs  beguile 
A  King's  high  heart  that  he  should  smile, — 

Full  many  a  lordly  hour,  full  fain 

Of  his  realm's  rule  and  pride  of  his  reign  :  — 

But  this  King  never  smiled  again.        % 

By  none  but  me  can  the  tale  be  told, 
The  butcher  of  Rouen,  poor  Berold. 

(Lands  are  swayed  by  a  King  on  a  throne.) 
'Twas  a  royal  train  put  forth  to  sea, 
Yet  the  tale  can  be  told  by  none  but  me. 

( The  sea  hath  no  King  but  God  alone.) 


THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY. 


JAMES  I.  OF  SCOTS. — 20ra  FEBRUARY,  1437. 

NOTE.— Tradition  says  that  Catharine  Douglas,  in  honor  of 
her  heroic  act  when  she  barred  the  door  with  her  arm  against 
the  murderers  of  James  (he  First  of  Scots,  received  popularly 
the  name  of  "  Barlass."  This  name  remains  to  her  descendants, 
the  Barlas  family,  in  Scotland,  who  bear  for  their  crest  a 
broken  arm.  She  married  Alexander  Lovell  of  Bolunnie. 

A  few  stanzas  from  King  James's  lovely  poem,  known  as 
The  Sing's  Quhair,  are  quoted  in  the  course  of  this  ballad. 
The  writer  niuet  express  regret  for  the  necessity  winch  lias 
compelled  him  to  shorten  the  ten-syllabled  lines  to  eight  sylla- 
bles, in  order  that  they  might  harmonize  with  the  ballad 
meter. 

I  CATHERINE  am  a  Douglas  born, 

A  name  to  all  Scots  dear ; 
And  Kate  Barlass  they've  called  me  now 

Through  many  a  waning  year. 

This  old  arm's  withered  now.     'Twas  once 

Most  deft  'mong  maidens  all 
To  rein  the  steed,  to  wing  the  shaft, 

To  smite  the  palm-play  ball. 

In  hall  adown  the  close-linked  dance 
It  has  shone  most  white  and  fair  ; 
It  has  been  the  rest  for  a  true  lord's  head, 
And  many  a  sweet  babe's  ,nursing-bed, 
And  the  bar  to  a  King's  chambere. 

Ay,  lasses,  draw  round  Kate  Barlass, 

And  hark  with  bated  breath 
How  good  King  James,  King  Robert's  son, 

Was  foully  done  to  death. 


KING  'S  TRA  GED  Y.  & 

Through  all  the  days  of  his  gallant  youth 

The  princely  James  was  pent, 
By  his  friends  at  first  and  then  by  his  foes, 

In  long  imprisonment. 

For  the  elder  Prince,  the  kingdom's  heir, 

By  treason's  murderous  brood 
Was  slain  ;  and  the  father  quaked  for  the  child 

With  the  royal  mortal  blood. 

I'  the  Bass  Rock  fort,  by  his  father's  care, 

Was  his  childhood's  life  assured  ; 
And  Henry  the  subtle  Bolingbroke, 
Proud  England's  King,  'neath  the  southron  yoke 

His  youth  for  long  years  immured. 

Yet  in  all  things  meet  for  a  kingly  man 

Himself  did  he  approve  ; 
And  the  nightingale  through  his  prison-wall 

Taught  him  both  lore  and  love. 

For  once,  when  the  bird's  song  drew  him  close 
To  the  opened  window-pane, 

In  her  bowers  beneath  a  lady  stood, 
A  light  of  life  to  his  sorrowful  mood, 
Like  a  lily  amid  the  rain. 

And  for  her  sake,  to  the  sweet  bird's  note, . 

He  framed  a  sweeter  Song, 
Moia  sweet  that  ever  a  poet's  heart 

Gave  yet  to  the  English  tongue. 

She  was  a  lady  of  royal  blood  ; 

And  when,  past  sorrow  and  teen, 
He  stood  where  still  through  his  crownless  years 

His  Scottish  realm  had  been, 
At  Scone  were  the  happy  lovers  crowned, 

A  heart-wed  King  and  Queen. 

But  the  bird  may  tall  from  the  bough  of  youth, 
And  song  be  turned  to  moan, 
15 


226  THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY. 

And  Love's  storm-cloud  be  the  shadow  of  Hate, 
When  the  tempest-waves  of  a  troubled  State 
Are  beating  against  a  throne. 

Yet  well  they  loved  ;  and  the  god  of  Love, 

Whom  well  the  King  had  sung, 
Might  find  on  earth  no  truer  hearts 

His  lowliest  swains  among. 

From  the  days  when  first  she  rode  abroad 
With  Scottish  maids  in  her  train, 

I  Catherine  Douglas  won  the  trust 
Of  my  mistress  sweet  Queen  Jane. 

And  oft  she  sighed,  "  To  be  born  a  King  !  " 

And  oft  along  the  way 
When  she  saw  the  homely  lovers  pass 

She  has  said,  "Alack  the  day  !  " 

Years  waned, —  the  loving  and  toiling  years  : 

Till  England's  wrong  renewed 
Drove  James,  by  outrage  cast  on  his  crown, 

To  the  open  field  of  feud. 

'Twas  when  the  King  and  his  host  were  met 

At  the  leaguer  of  Roxbro'  hold, 
The  Queen  o'  the  sudden  sought  his  camp 

With  a  tale  of  dread  to  be  told. 

And  she  showed  him  a  secret  letter  writ 

That  spoke  of  treasonous  strife, 
And  how  a  band  of  his  noblest  lords 

Were  sworn  to  take  his  life. 

"  And  it  may  be  here  or  it  may  be  there, 
In  the  camp  or  the  court,"  she  said  : 

"  But  for  my  sake  come  to  your  people's  arms 
And  guard  your  royal  head." 

Quoth  he,  "  Tis  the  fifteenth  day  of  the  siege, 
And  the  castle  's  nigh  to  yield." 


THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY.  227 

"  O  face  your  foes  on  your  throne,"  she  cried, 
"  And  show  the  power  you  wield  ; 

And  under  your  Scottish  people's  love 
You  shall  sit  as  under  your  shield." 

At  the  fair  Queen's  side  I  stood  that  day 
When  he  bade  them  raise  the  siege, 

And  back  to  his  Court  he  sped  to  know 
How  the  lords  would  meet  their  Liege. 

But  when  he  summoned  his  Parliament, 

The  louring  brows  hung  round, 
Like  clouds  that  circle  the  mountain-head 

Ere  the  first  low  thunders  sound. 

For  he  had  tamed  the  nobles'  lust 
And  curbed  their  power  and  pride, 

And  reached  out  an  arm  to  right  the  poor 
Through  Scotland  far  and  wide  ; 

And  may  a  lordly  wrong-doer 
By  the  headsman's  ax  had  died. 

'Twas  then  upspoke  Sir  Robert  Graeme, 

The  bold  o'ermastering  man  :  — 
"  O  King,  in  the  name  of  your  Three  Estates 

I  set  you  under  their  ban  ! 

"  For,  as  your  lords  made  oath  to  you 

Of  service  and  fealty, 
Even  in  like  wise  you  pledged  your  oath 

Their  faithful  sire  to  be  :  — 

"  Yet  all  we  here  that  are  nobly  sprung 

Have  mourned  dear  kith  and  kin 
Since  first  for  the  Scottish  Barons'  curse 

Did  vour  bloody  rule  begin." 
With  that  he  laid  his  hands  on  his  King  :  — 

"  Is  this  not  so,  my  lords  ?  " 
But  of  all  who  had  sworn  to  league  with  him 

Not  one  spake  back  to  his  words. 


228  THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY. 

Quoth  the  King  :  —  «  Thou  speak'st  but  for  one  Estate, 

Nor  doth  it  avow  thy  gage. 
Let  my  liege  lords  hale  this  traitor  hence  ! " 

The  Graeme  fired  dark  with  rage  :  — 
"  Who  works  for  lesser  men  than  himself, 

He  earns  but  a  witless  wage  ! " 

But  soon  from  the  dungeon  where  he  lay 

He  won  by  privy  plots, 
And  forth  he  fled  with  a  price  on  his  head 

To  the  country  of  the  Wild  Scots. 

And  word  there  came  from  Sir  Robert  Graeme 

To  the  King  at  Edinbro'  :  — 
"  No  Liege  of  mine  thou  art  ;  but  I  see 
From  this  day  forth  alone  in  thee 

God's  creature,  my  mortal  foe. 

"  Through  thee  are  my  wife  and  children  lost, 

My  heritage  and  lands  ; 
And  when  my  God  shall  show  me  a  way, 

Thyself  my  mortal  foe  will  I  slay 
With  these  my  proper  hands." 

Against  the  coming  of  Christmastide 

That  year  the  King  bade  call 
I'  the  Black  Friars'  Charterhouse  of  Perth 

A  solemn  festival. 

And  we  of  his  household  rode  with  him 

In  a  close-ranked  company  ; 
But  not  till  the  sun  had  sunk  from  his  throne 

Did  we  reach  the  Scottish  Sea. 

That  eve  was  clenched  for  a  boding  storm, 

'Neath  a  toilsome  moon  half  seen  ; 
The  cloud  stooped  low  and  the  surf  rose  high  ; 
And  where  there  was  a  line  of  the  sky, 

Wild  wings  loomed  dark  between. 


THE  KIXG  'S  TRA  GED  Y.  229 

And  on  a  rock  of  the  black  beach-side, 

By  the  veiled  moon  dimly  lit, 
There  was  something  seemed  to  heave  with  life 

As  the  King  drew  nigh  to  it. 

And  was  it  only  the  tossing  furze 

Or  brake  of  the  waste  sea-wold  ? 
Or  was  it  an  eagle  bent  to  the  blast  ? 
When  near  we  came,  we  knew  it  at  last 

For  a  woman  tattered  and  old. 

But  it  seemed  as  though  by  a  fire  within 

Her  writhen  limbs  were  wrung  ; 
And  as  soon  as  the  King  was  close  to  her, 

She  stood  up  gaunt  and  strong. 

'Twas  then  the  moon  sailed  clear  of  the  rack 

On  high  in  her  hollow  dome  ; 
And  still  as  aloft  with  hoary  crest 

Each  clamorous  wave  rang  home, 
Like  fire  in  snow  the  moonlight  blazed 

Amid  the  champing  foam. 

And  the  woman  held  his  eyes  with  her  eyes  :  — 

"  O  King,  thou  art  come  at  last ; 
But  thy  wraith  has  haunted  the  Scottish  Sea 

To  my  sight  for  four  years  past. 

"  Four  years  it  is  since  first  I  met, 

'Twixt  the  Duchray  and  the  Dim, 
A  shape  whose  feet  clung  close  in  a  shroud, 

And  that  shape  for  thine  I  knew. 

"  A  year  again,  and  on  Inchkeith  Isle 

I  saw  thee  pass  in  the  breeze, 
With  the  cerecloth  risen  above  thy  feet 

And  wound  about  thy  knees.  * 

"  And  yet  a  year,  in  the  Links  of  Forth, 

As  a  wanderer  without  rest, 
Thou  cam'st  with  both  thine  arms  i'  the  shroud 

That  clung  high  up  thy  breast. 


230  THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY. 

"  And  in  this  hour  I  find  thee  here, 

And  well  mine  eyes  may  note 
That  the  winding-sheet  hath  passed  thy  breast 

And  risen  around  thy  throat. 

"  And  when  I  meet  thee  again,  O  King, 

That  of  death  hast  such  sore  drouth, — 
Except  thou  turn  again  on  this  shore, — 
The  winding-sheet  shall  have  moved  once  more 
And  covered  thine  eyes  and  mouth. 

"  O  King,  whom  poor  men  bless  for  their  King, 

Of  thy  fate  be  not  so  fain  ; 
But  these  my  words  for  God's  message  take, 
And  turn  thy  steed,  O  King,  for  her  sake 

Who  rides  beside  thy  rein  !  " 

While  the  woman  spoke,  the  King's  horse  reared 

As  if  it  would  breast  the  sea, 
And  the  Queen  turned  pale  as  she  heard  on  the 
gale 

The  voice  die  dolorously. 

When  the  woman  ceased,  the  steed  was  still, 

But  the  King  gazed  on  her  yet, 
And  in  silence  save  for  the  wail  of  the  sea 

His  eyes  and  her  eyes  met. 

At  last  he  said  :  —  "  God's  ways  are  His  own  ; 

Man  is  but  shadow  and  dust. 
Last  night  I  prayed  by  His  altar-stone  ; 
To-night  I  wend  to  the  Feast  of  His  Son  ; 

And  in  Him  I  set  my  trust. 
0 

"I  have  held  my  people  in  sacred  charge, 

And  have  not  feared  the  sting 
Of  proud  men's  hate, —  to  His  will  resign'd 
Who  has  but  one  same  death  for  a  hind 

And  one  same  death  for  a  King. 


THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY.  231 

"  And  if  God  in  His  wisdom  have  brought  close 

The  day  when  I  must  die, 
That  day  by  water  or  fire  or  air 
My  feet  shall  fall  in  the  destined  snare 

Wherever  my  road  may  lie. 

"  What  man  can  say  but  the  Fiend  hath  set 

Thy  sorcery  on  my  path, 
My  heart  with  the  fear  of  death  to  fill, 
And  turn  me  against  God's  very  will 

To  sink  in  His  burning  wrath  ?  " 

The  woman  stood  as  the  train  rode  past, 

And  moved  nor  limb  nor  eye  ; 
And  when  we  were  shipped,  we  saw  her  there 

Still  standing  agairfst  the  sky. 

As  the  ship  made  way,  the  moon  once  more 

Sank  slow  in  her  rising  pall ; 
And  I  thought  of  the  shrouded  wraith  of  the  King, 

And  I  said,  "  The  Heavens  know  all." 

And  now,  ye  lasses,  must  ye  hear 
How  my  name  is  Kate  Barlass  :  — 

But  a  little  thing,  when  all  the  tale 
Is  told  of  the  weary  mass 

Of  crime  and  woe  which  in  Scotland's  realm 
God's  will  let  come  to  pass. 

'Twas  in  the  Charterhouse  of  Perth 

That  the  King  and  all  his  Court 
Were  met,  the  Christmas  Feast  being  done, 

For  solace  and  disport. 

'Twas  a  wind-wild  eve  in  February, 

And  against  the  casement  pane 
The  branches  smote  like  summoning  hands 

And  muttered  the  driving  rain. 


232  THE  KING 'S  TRA  GED  Y. 

And  when  the  wind  swooped  over  the  lift 
And  made  the  whole  heaven  frown, 

It  seemed  a  grip  was  laid  on  the  walls 
To  tug  the  housetop  down. 

And  the  Queen  was  there,  more  stately  fair 

Than  a  lily  in  garden  set ; 
And  the  King  was  loth  to  stir  from  her  side  ; 
For  as  on  the  day  when  she  was  his  bride, 

Even  so  he  loved  her  yet. 

And  the  Earl  of  Athole,  the  King's  false  friend, 

Sat  with  him  at  the  board  ; 
And  Robert  Stuart  the  chamberlain 

Who  had  sold  his  sovereign  Lord. 

Yet  the  traitor  Christopher  Chaumber  there 

Would  fain  have  told  him  all, 
And  vainly  four  times  that  night  he  strove 

To  reach  the  King  through  the  hall. 

But  the  wine  is  bright  at  the  goblet's  brim 

Though  the  poison  lurk  beneath  ; 
And  the  apples  still  are  red  on  the  tree 
Within  whose  shade  may  the  adder  be 

That  shall  turn  thy  life  to  death. 

There  was  a  knight  of  the  King's  fast  friends 
Whom  he  called  the  King  of  Love  ; 

And  to  such  bright  cheer  and  courtesy 
That  name  might  best  behoove. 

And  the  King  and  Queen  both  loved  him  well 

For  his  gentle  knightliness  ; 
And  with  him  the  King,  as  that  eve  wore  on, 

Was  playing  at  the  chess. 

And  the  King  said,  (for  he  thought  to  jest 
And  soothe  the  Queen  thereby  ;  )  — 

"  In  a  book  't  is  writ  that  this  same  year 
A  King  shall  in  Scotland  die, 


THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY.  233 

"  And  I  have  pondered  the  matter  o'er, 

And  this  have  I  found,  Sir  Hugh, — 
There  are  but  two  Kings  on  Scottish  ground, 

And  those  Kings  are  I  and  you. 

"  And  I  have  a  wife  and  a  newborn  heir, 

And  you  are  yourself  alone  ; 
So  stand  you  stark  at  my  side  with  me 

To  guard  our  double  throne. 

"  For  here  sit  I  and  my  wife  and  child, 

As  well  your  heart  shall  approve, 
In  full  surrender  and  soothfastness, 

Beneath  your  Kingdom  of  Love." 

And  the  Knight  laughed,  and  the  Queen  too  smiled  ; 

But  I  knew  her  heavy  thought, 
And  I  strove  to  find  in  the  good  King's  jest 

What  cheer  might  thence  be  wrought. 

And  I  said,  "  My  Liege,  for  the  Queen's  dear  love 

Now  sing  the  song  that  of  old 
You  made,  when  a  captive  Prince  you  lay, 
And  the  nightingale  sang  sweet  on  the  spray, 

In  Windsor's  castle-hold." 

Then  he  smiled  the  smile  I  knew  so  well 
When  he  thought  to  please  the  Queen  ; 

The  smile  which  under  all  bitter  frowns 
Of  hate  that  rose  between, 

Forever  dwelt  at  the  poet's  heart 
Like  the  bird  of  love  unseen. 

And  he  kissed  her  hand  and  took  his  harp, 

And  the  music  sweetly  rang  ; 
And  when  the  song  burst  forth,  it  seemed 

'  Twas  the  nightingale  that  sang. 

"  Worship,  ye  lovers,  on  this  May  : 
Of  bliss  your  kalends  are  begun  : 
$ing  with  iw,  Away,  Winter,  away  I 


234  THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY. 

Come,  Summer,  the  sweet  season  and  sun  f 
Awake  for  shame, —  your  heaven  is  won, — 
And  amorously  your  heads  lift  all : 
Tfiank  Love,  that  you  to  his  grace  doth  call  !  " 

But  when  he  bent  to  the  Queen,  and  sang 
The  speech  whose  praise  was  hers, 

It  seemed  his  voice  was  the  voice  of  the  Spring 
And  the  voice  of  the  bygone  years. 

"  The  fairest  and  the  freshest  flower 
That  ever  I  saw  before  that  hour, 
The  which  o*  the  sudden  made  to  start 
The  blood  of  my  body  to  my  heart. 


Ah  sweet,  are  ye  a  worldly  creature 

Or  heavenly  thing  inform  of  nature?  " 

And  the  song  was  long,  and  richly  stored 
With  wonder  and  becuteous  things  ; 

And  the  harp  was  tuned  to  every  change 
Of  minstrel  ministerings  ; 

But  when  he  spoke  of  the  Queen  at  the  last, 
Its  strings  were  his  own  heart-strings. 

"  Unworthy  but  only  of  her  grace, 

Upon  Love's  rock  that's  easy  and  sure, 

In  guerdon  of  all  my  love's  space 
She  took  me  her  humble  creature. 
Thus  fell  my  blissful  aventure 

In  youth  of  love  that  from  day  to  day 

Flowereth  aye  new,  and  further  I  say. 

"  To  reckon  all  the  circumstance 
As  it  happed  when  lessen  gan  my  sorey 

Of  my  rancor  and  woeful  chance, 
It  were  too  long, —  I  have  done  therefor. 
And  of  this  flower  I  say.  no  more 

3ut  unto  my  help  her  heart  hath  tended 

And  even  from  death  her  man  defended." 


THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY.  235 

"  Ay,  even  from  death,"  to  myself  I  said  ; 

For  I  thought  of  the  day  when  she 
Had  borne  him  the  news,  at  Roxbro'  siege, 

Of  the  fell  confederacy. 

But  Death  even  then  took  aim  as  he  sang 

With  an  arrow  deadly  bright ; 
And  the  grinning  skull  lurked  grimly  aloof, 
And  the  wings  were  spread  far  over  the  roof 

More  dark  than  the  winter  night. 

Yet  truly  along  the  amorous  song 

Of  Love's  high  pomp  and  state, 
There  wei-e  words  of  Fortune's  trackless  doom 

And  the  dreadful  face  of  Fate. 

And  oft  have  I  heard  again  in  dreams 

The  voice  of  dire  appeal 
In  which  the  King  then  sang  of  the  pit 

That  is  under  Fortune's  wheel. 

"  And  under  the  wheel  beheld  I  there 

An  ugly  Pit  as  deep  as  hell, 
That  to  behold  I  quaked  for  fear : 

And  this  I heard,  that  who  therein  fell 

Came  no  more  uf>,  tidings  to  tell: 
"Whereat,  astound  of  the  fearful  sight, 
I  wist  not  what  to  do  for  fright" 

And  oft  has  my  thought  called  up  again 

These  words  of  the  changeful  song  :  — 
"  Wist  thou  thy  pain  and  thy  travail 
To  come,  well  mightst  thou  weep  and  wail!" 
And  our  wail,  O  God  !  is  long.  * 

But  the  song's  end  was  all  of  his  love ; 

And  well  his  heart  was  grac'd 
With  her  smiling  lips  and  her  tear-bright  eyes 

As  his  arm  went  round  her  waist. 


236  THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY. 

And  on  the  swell  of  her  long  fair  throat 

Close  clung  the  necklet-chain 
As  he  bent  her  pearl-lir'd  head  aside, 
And  in  the  warmth  of  his  love  and  pride 

He  kissed  her  lips  full  fain. 

And  her  true  face  was  a  rosy  red, 

The  very  red  of  the  rose 
That,  couched  on  the  happy  garden-bed, 

In  the  summer  sunlight  glows. 

And  all  the  wondrous  things  of  love 
That  sang  so  sweet  through  the  song 

Were  in  the  look  that  met  in  their  eyes, 
And  the  look  was  deep  and  long. 

'Twas  then  a  knock  came  at  the  outer  gate, 
And  the  usher  sought  the  King. 

"  The  woman  you  met  by  the  Scottish  Sea, 
My  Liege,  would  tell  you  a  thing  ; 

And  she  says  that  her  present  need  for  speech 
Will  bear  no  gainsaying." 

And  the  King  said  :  "  The  hour  is  late  ; 

To-morrow  will  serve,  I  ween." 
Then  he  charged  the  usher  strictly,  and  said  : 

"  No  word  of  this  to  the  Queen." 

But  the  usher  came  again  to  the  King. 

"  Shall  I  call  her  back  ?  "  quoth  he  : 
"  For  as  she  went  on  her  way,  she  cried, 

'  Woe  !  Woe  !  then  the  thing  must  be  ! ' " 

And  the  King  paused,  but  he  did  not  speak. 

Then  he  called  for  the  Voidee-cup  : 
And  as  he  heard  the  twelfth  hour  strike, 
There  by  true  lips  and  false  lips  alike 

Was  the  draught  of  trust  drained  up. 

So  with  reverence  meet  to  King  and  Queen, 
To  bed  went  all  from  the  board  ; 


THE  ICING'S  TRAGEDY. 

And  the  last  to  leave  of  the  courtly  train 
Was  Robert  Stuart  the  chamberlain 
Who  had  sold  his  sovereign  lord. 

And  all  the  locks  of  the  chamber-door 

Had  the  traitor  riven  and  brast ; 
And  that  Fate  might  win  sure  way  from  afar, 
He  had  drawn  out  every  bolt  and  bar 
That  made  the  entrance  fast. 

And  now  at  midnight  he  stole  his  way 

To  the  moat  of  the  outer  wall, 
And  laid  strong  hurdles  closely  across 

Where  the  traitors'  tread  should  fall. 

But  we  that  were  the  Queen's  bower-maids 

Alone  were  left  behind  ; 
And  with  heed  we  drew  the  curtains  close 

Against  the  winter  wind. 

And  now  that  all  was  still  through  the  hall, 

More  clearly  we  heard  the  rain 
That  clamored  ever  against  the  glass 

And  the  boughs  that  beat  on  the  pane. 

But  the  fire  was  bright  in  the  ingle-nook, 

And  through  empty  space  around 
The  shadows  cast  on  the  arras'd  wall 
'Mid  the  pictured  kings  stood  sudden  and  tall 
Like  specters  sprung  from  the  ground. 

And  the  bed  was  dight  in  a  deep  alcove  ; 

And  as  he  stood  by  the  fire 
The  king  was  still  in  talk  with  the  Queen 

While  he  doffed  his  goodly  attire. 

And  the  song  had  brought  the  image  back 

Of  many  a  bygone  year  ; 
And  many  a  loving  word  they  said 
With  hand  in  hand  and  head  laid  to  head  ; 

And  none  of  us  went  anear. 


238  THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY. 

But  love  was  weeping  outside  the  house, 

A  child  in  the  piteous  rain  ; 
And  as  he  watched  the  arrow  of  Death, 
He  wailed  for  his  own  shafts  close  in  the  sheath s 

That  never  should  fly  again. 

And  now  beneath  the  window  arose 

A  wild  voice  suddenly  : 
And  the  King  reared  straight,  but  the  Queen  fell  back 

As  for  bitter  dule  to  dree  ; 
And  all  of  us  knew  the  woman's  voice 

Who  spoke  by  the  Scottish  Sea. 

"  O  King,"  she  cried,  "  in  an  evil  hour 

They  drov~;  me  from  thy  gate  ; 
And  yet  my  voice  must  rise  to  thine  ears  ; 
But  alas  !  it  comes  too  late  ! 

"Last  night  at  mid-watch,  by  Aberdour, 
When  the  moon  was  dead  in  the  skies, 

O  King,  in  a  death-light  of  thine  own 
I  saw  thy  shape  arise. 

"  And  in  full  season,  as  erst  I  said, 

The  doom  had  gained  its  growth  ; 
And  the  shroud  had  risen  above  thy  neck 

And  covered  thine  eyes  and  mouth. 

"  And  no  moon  woke,  but  the  pale  dawn  broke, 

And  still  thy  soul  stood  there  ; 
And  I  thought  its  silence  cried  to  my  soul 

As  the  first  rays  crowned  its  hair. 

"  Since  then  have  I  journeyed  fast  and  fain 

In  very  despite  of  Fate, 
Lest  Hope  might  still  be  found  in  God's  will : 

But  they  drove  me  from  thy  gate. 

"  For  every  man  on  God's  ground,  O  King, 
His  death  grows  up  from  his  birth 


THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY.  239 

In  a  shadow-plant  perpetually  ; 
And  thine  towers  high,  a  black  yew-tree, 
O'er  the  Charterhouse  of  Perth  !  " 

That  room  was  built  far  out  from  the  house  ; 

And  none  but  we  in  the  room 
Might  hear  the  voice  that  rose  beneath, 

Nor  the  tread  of  the  coming  doom. 

For  now  there  came  a  torchlight -glare, 

And  a  clang  of  arms  there  came  ; 
And  not  a  soul  in  that  space  but  thought 

Of  the  foe  Sir  Robert  Graeme. 

Yea,  from  the  country  of  the  Wild  Scots, 

O'er  mountain,  valley,  and  glen, 
He  had  brought  with  him  in  murderous  league 

Three  hundred  armed  men. 

The  King  knew  all  in  an  instant's  flash, 

And  like  a  King  did  he  stand  ; 
But  there  was  no  armor  in  all  the  room, 

Nor  weapon  lay  to  his  hand. 

And  all  we  women  flew  to  the  door 
And  thought  to  have  made  it  fast ; 

But  the  bolts  were  gone  and  the  bars  were  gone 
And  the  locks  were  riven  and  brast. 

And  he  caught  the  pale  pale  Queen  in  his  arms 

As  the  iron  footsteps  fell, — 
Then  loosed  her,  standing  alone,  and  said, 

"  Our  bliss  was  our  farewell  !  " 

And  'twixt  his  lips  he  murmured  a  prayer, 

And  he  crossed  his  brow  and  breast  ; 
And  proudly  in  royal  hardihood 
Even  so  with  folded  arms  he  stood, — 
The  prize  of  the  bloody  quest. 


240  THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY. 

Then  on  me  leaped  the  Queen  like  a  deer  :  — 

"  O  Catherine,  help  !  "  she  cried, 
And  low  at  his  feet  we  clasped  his  knees 

Together  side  by  side. 
"  Oh  !  even  a  King,  for  his  people's  sake, 

From  treasonous  death  must  hide  ! " 

"  For  her  sake  most !  "  I  cried,  and  I  marked 
The  pang  that  my  words  could  wring. 

And  the  iron  tongs  from  the  chimney-nook 
I  snatched  and  held  to  the  King  :  — 

"Wrench  up  the  plank  !  and  the  vault  beneath 
Shall  yield  safe  harboring." 

With  brows  low-bent,  from  my  eager  hand 

The  heavy  heft  did  he  take  ; 
And  the  plank  at  his  feet  he  wrenched  and  tore  ; 
And  as  he  frowned  through  the  open  floor, 

Again  I  said,  "  For  her  sake  !  " 

Then  he  cried  to  the  Queen,  "  God's  will  be  done  ! " 
For  her  hands  were  clasped  in  prayer. 

And  down  he  sprang  to  the  inner  crypt  ; 

And  straight  we  closed  the  plank  he  had  ripp'd 
And  toiled  to  smoothe  it  fair. 

(Alas  !  in  that  vault  a  gap  once  was 

Wherethro'  the  King  might  have  fled  : 
But  three  days  since  close-walled  had  it  been 
By  his  will ;  for  the  ball  would  roll  therein 
When  without  at  the  palm  he  play'd.) 

Then  the  Queen  cried,  "  Catherine,  keep  the  door, 

And  I  to  this  will  suffice  ! " 
At  her  word  I  rose  all  dazed  to  my  feet, 

And  my  heart  was  fire  and  ice. 

And  louder  ever  the  voices  grew, 

And  the  tramp  of  men  in  mail ; 
Until  to  my  brain  it  seemed  to  be 
As  though  I  tossed  on  a  ship  at  sea 

In  the  teeth  of  a  crashing  gale. 


THE  KING '  Sf  TKA  G£D  Y.  241 

Then  back  I  flew  to  the  rest ;  and  hard 

We  strove  with  sinews  knit 
To  force  the  table  against  the  door  ; 

But  we  might  not  accomplish  it. 

Then  my  wild  gaze  sped  far  down  the  hall 
To  the  place  of  the  hearthstone-sill ; 

And  the  Queen  bent  ever  above  the  floor^ 
For  the  plank  was  rising  still. 

And  now  the  rush  was  heard  on  the  stair, 
And  "  God,  what  help  ?  "  was  our  cry. 

And  was  I  frenzied  or  was  I  bold  ? 

I  looked  at  each  empty  stanchion-hold, 
And  no  bar  but  my  arm  had  I ! 

Like  iron  felt  my  arm,  as  through 

The  staple  I  made  it  pass  :  — 
Alack  !  it  was  flesh  and  bone  —  no  more  ! 
'Twas  Catherine  Douglas  sprang  to  the  door, 

But  I  fell  back  Kate  Barlass. 

"With  tli at  they  all  thronged  into  the  hall, 

Half  dim  to  my  failing  ken  ; 
And  the  space  that  was  but  a  void  before 

Was  a  crowd  of  wrathful  men. 

Behind  the  door  I  had  fall'n  and  lay, 

Yet  my  sense  was  wildly  aware, 
And  for  all  the  pain  of  my  shattered  arm 

I  never  fainted  there. 

Even  as  I  fell,  my  eyes  were  cast 

Where  the  King  leaped  down  to  the  pit ; 

And  lo  !  the  plank  was  smooth  in  its  place, 
And  the  Queen  stood  far  from  it. 

And  under  the  litters  and  through  the  bed 

And  within  the  presses  all 
The  traitors  sought  for  the  King,  and  pierced 

The  arras  around  the  wall. 
16 


242  THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY. 

And  through  the  chamber  they  ramped  and  stormed 

Like  lions  loose  in  the  lair, 
And  scarce  could  trust  to  their  very  eyes, — 

For  behold  !  no  King  was  there. 

Then  one  of  them  seized  the  Queen,  and  cried, — 

"Now  tell  us,  where  is  thy  lord  ?" 
And  he  held  the  sharp  point  over  her  heart : 
She  drooped  not  her  eyes  nor  did  she  start, 

But  she  answered  never  a  word. 

Then  the  sword  half  pierced  the  true  true  breast : 

But  it  was  the  Graeme's  own  son 
Cried,  "  This  is  a  woman, —  we  seek  a  man  !  " 

And  away  from  her  girdle-zone 
He  struck  the  point  of  the  murderous  steel ; 

And  that  foul  deed  was  not  done. 

And  forth  flowed  all  the  throng  like  a  sea, 

And  'twas  empty  space  once  more  ; 
And  my  eyes  sought  out  the  wounded  Queen 

As  I  lay  behind  the  door. 

And  I  said  :  "  Dear  Lady,  leave  me  here, 

For  I  cannot  help  you  now  ; 
But  fly  while  you  may,  and  none  shall  reck 

Of  my  place  here  lying  low." 

And  she  said,  "  My  Catherine,  God  help  thee  !  " 

Then  she  looked  to  the  distant  floor, 
And  clasping  her  hands,  " O  God  help  him" 

She  sobbed,  "  for  we  can  no  more  !  " 

But  God  He  knows  what  help  may  mean, 

If  it  mean  to  live  or  to  die  ; 
And  what  sore  sorrow  and  mighty  moan 
On  earth  it  may  cost  ere  yet  a  throne 

Be  filled  in  His  house  on  high. 


THE  KING 'S  TRA  GED  K  243 

And  now  the  ladies  fled  with  the  Queen  ; 

And  through  the  open  door 
The  night- wind  wailed  round  the  empty  room 

And  the  rushes  shook  on  the  floor. 

And  the  bed  drooped  low  in  the  dark  recess 

Whence  the  arras  was  rent  away  ; 
And  the  firelight  still  shone  over  the  space 

"Where  our  hidden  secret  lay. 

And  the  rain  had  ceased,  and  the  moonbeams  lit 

The  window  high  in  the  wall, — 
Bright  beams  that  on  the  plank  that  I  knew 

Through  the  painted  pane  did  fall 
And   gleamed   with   the    splendor    of    Scotland's 
crown 

And  shield  armorial. 

But  then  a  great  wind  swept  up  the  skies, 

And  the  climbing  moon  fell  back  ; 
And  the  royal  blazon  fled  from  the  floor, 

And  naught  remained  on  its  track  ; 
And  high  in  the  darkened  window-pane 

The  shield  and  the  crown  were  black. 

And  what  I  say  next  I  partly  saw 

And  partly  I  heard  in  sooth, 
And  partly  since  from  the  mm-derers'  lips 

The  torture  wrung  the  truth. 

For  now  again  came  the  armed  tread, 

And  fast  through  the  hall  it  fell ; 
But  the  throng  was  less  ;  and  ere  I  saw, 

By  the  voice  without  I  could  tell 
That  Robert  Stuart  had  come  with  them 

Who  knew  that  chamber  well. 

And  over  the  space  the  Graeme  strode  dark 

With  his  mantle  round  him  flung  ; 
And  in  his  eye  was  a  flaming  light 

But  not  a  word  on  his  tongue. 


244  THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY. 

And  Stuart  held  a  torch  to  the  floor, 
And  he  found  the  thing  he  sought ; 

And  they  slashed  the  plank  away  with  their  swords  J 
And  O  God  !  I  fainted  not ! 

And  the  traitor  held  his  torch  in  the  gap, 

All  smoking  and  smoldering  ; 
And  through  the  vapor  and  fire,  beneath 

In  the  dark  crypt's  narrow  ring, 
With  a  shout  that  pealed  to  the  room's  high  roof 

They  saw  their  naked  King. 

Half  naked  he  stood,  hut  stood  as  one 

Who  yet  could  do  and  dare  : 
With  the  crown,  the  King  was  stript  away, — 
The  Knight  was  reft  of  his  battle-array, — 

But  still  the  Man  was  there. 

From  the  rout  then  stepped  a  villain  forth, — 

Sir  John  Hall  was  his  name  ; 
With  a  knife  unsheathed  he  leapt  to  the  vault 

Beneath  the  torchlight-flame. 

Of  his  person  and  statue  was  the  King 

A  man  right  manly  strong, 
And  mightily  by  the  shoulder-blades 

His  foe  to  his  feet  he  flung. 

Then  the  traitor's  brother.  Sir  Thomas  Hall, 

Sprang  down  to  work  his  worst ; 
And  the  King  caught  the  second  man  by  the  neck 

And  flung  him  above  the  first. 

And  he  smote  and  trampled  them  under  him  ; 

And  a  long  month  thence  they  bare 
All  black  their  throats  with  the    grip  of  his  hands 

When  the  hangman's  hand  came  there. 

And  sore  he  strove  to  have  had  their  knives, 
But  the  sharp  blades  gashed  his  hands. 


THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY.  245 

Oh  James  !  so  armed,  thou  hadst  battled  there 

Till  help  had  come  of  thy  bands  ; 
And  oh  !  once  more  thou  hadst  held  our  throne 

And  ruled  thy  Scottish  hands  ! 

But  while  the  King  o'er  his  foe  still  raged 
With  a  heart  that  naught  could  tame, 

Another  man  sprang  down  to  the  crypt  ; 

And  with  his  sword  in  his  hand  hard-gripp'd, 
There  stood  Sir  Robert  Graeme. 


(Now  shame  on  the  recreant  traitor's  heart 

Who  durst  not  face  his  King 
Till  the  body  unarmed  was  wearied  out 

With  two-fold  combating ! 

Ah  !  well  might  the  people  sing  and  say, 

As  oft  ye  have  heard  aright  :  — 
"  0  Robert  Graeme,  0  Robert  Graeme, 
Who  slew  our  King,  God  give  thee  shame  1 " 
For  he  slew  him  not  as  a  knight.) 

And  the  naked  King  turned  round  at  bay, 
But  his  strength  had  passed  the  goal, 

And  he  could  but  gasp:  — "Mine  hour  is  come  ; 

But  oh  !  to  succor  thine  own  soul's  doom, 
Let  a  priest  now  shrive  my  soul !  " 

And  the  traitor  looked  on  the  King's  spent  strength, 
And  said :  — "  Have  I  kept  my  word  ?  — 

Yea,  King,  the  mortal  pledge  that  I  gave  ? 

No  black  friar's  shrift  thy  soul  shall  have, 
But  the  shrift  of  this  red  sword  ! " 

With  that  he  smote  his  King  through  the  breast ; 

And  all  they  three  in  that  pen 
Fell  on  him  and  stabbed  and  stabbed  him  there 

Like  merciless  murderous  men. 


246  THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY. 

Yet  seemed  it  now  that  Sir  Robert  Graeme, 
Ere  the  King's  last  breath  was  o'er, 

Turned  sick  at  heart  with  the  deadly  sight 
And  would  have  done  no  more. 

But  a  cry  came  from  the  troop  above  ;  — 

"  If  him  thou  do  not  slay, 
The  price  of  his  life  that  thou  dost  spare 

Thy  forfeit  life  shall  pay  !  " 

O  God  !  what  more  did  I  hear  or  see, 

Or  how  should  I  tell  the  rest  ? 
But  there  at  length  our  King  lay  slain 

With  sixteen  wounds  in  his  breast. 


O  God  !  and  now  did  a  bell  boom  forth, 

And  the  murderers  turned  and  fled  ;  — 
Too  late,  too  late,  O  God,  did  it  sound  !  — 
And  I  heard  the  true  men  mustering  round, 
And  the  cries  and  the  coming  tread. 

But  ere  they  came,  to  the  black  death-gap 

Somewise  did  I  creep  and  steal  ; 
And  lo  !  or  ever  I  swooned  away, 
Through  the  dusk  I  saw  where  the  white  face  lay 

In  the  Pit  of  Fortune's  Wheel. 

And  now,  ye  Scottish  maids  who  have  heard 
Dread  things  of  the  days  grown  old, — 

Even  at  the  last,  of  true  Queen  Jane 
May  somewhat  yet  be  told, 

And  how  she  dealt  for  her  dear  lord's  sake 
Dire  vengeance  manifold. 

'Twas  in  the  Charterhouse  of  Perth, 

In  the  fair-lit  Death-chapelle, 
That  the  slain  King's  corpse  on  bier  was  laid 

With  chaunt  and  requiem-knell. 


THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY.  247 

And  all  with  royal  wealth  of  balm 

Was  the  body  purified  ; 
And  none  could  trace  'on  the  brow  and  lips 

The  death  that  he  had  died. 

In  his  robes  of  state  he  lay  asleep 

With  orb  and  scepter  in  hand  ; 
And  by  the  crown  he  wore  on  his  throne 

Was  his  kingly  forehead  spann'd. 

And,  girls,  'twas  a  sweet  sad  thing  to  see 

How  the  curling  golden  hair, 
As  in  the  day  of  the  poet's  youth, 

From  the  King's  crown  clustered  there. 

And  if  all  had  come  to  pass  in  the  brain 

That  throbbed  beneath  those  curls, 
Then  Scots  had  said  in  the  days  to  come 
That  this  their  soil  was  a  different  home 

And  a  different  Scotland,  girls  ! 

And  the  Queen  sat  by  him  night  and  day, 

And  oft  she  knelt  in  prayer, 
All  wan  and  pale  in  the  widow's  veil 

That  shrouded  her  shining  hair. 

And  I  had  got  good  help  of  my  hurt  : 

And  only  to  me  some  sign 
She  made  ;  and  save  the  priests  that  were  there 

No  face  would  she  see  but  mine. 

And  the  month  of  March  wore  on  apace  ; 

And  now  fresh  couriers  fared 
Still  from  the  country  of  the  Wild  Scots 

With  news  of  the  traitors  snared. 

And  still  as  I  told  her  day  by  day, 

Her  pallor  changed  to  sight, 
And  the  frost  grew  to  a  furnace -flame 

That  burnt  her  visage  white. 


248  THE  KING'S  TRAGEDY. 

And  evermore  as  I  brought  her  word, 

She  bent  to  her  dead  King  James, 
And  in  the  cold  ear  with  fire-drawn  breath 

She  spoke  the  traitors'  names. 

But  when  the  name  of  Sir  Robert  Graeme 

Was  the  one  she  had  to  give, 
I  ran  to  hold  her  up  from  the  floor  ; 
For  the  froth  was  on  her  lips,  and  sore 

I  feared  that  she  could  not  live. 

And  the  month  of  March  wore  nigh  to  its  end, 

And  still  was  the  death-pall  spread  ; 
For  she  would  not  bury  her  slaughtered  lord 

Till  his  slayers  all  were  dead. 

And  now  of  their  dooms  dread  tidings  came, 

And  of  torments  fierce  and  dire  ; 
And  naught  she  spake, —  she  had  ceased  to  speak, — 

But  her  eyes  were  a  soul  on  fire. 

But  when  I  told  her  the  bitter  end 

Of  the  stern  and  just  award, 
She  leaned  o'er  the  bier,  and  thrice  three  times 

She  kissed  the  lips  of  her  lord. 

And  then  she  said, —  "  My  King,  they  are  dead  !  " 

And  she  knelt  on  the  chapel-floor, 
And  whispered  low  with  a  strange  proud  smile, — 

"  James,  James,  they  suffered  more  ! " 

Last  she  stood  up  to  her  queenly  height, 

But  she  shook  like  an  autumn  leaf, 
As  though  the  fire  wherein  she  burned 
Then  left  her  body,  and  all  were  turned 

To  winter  of  life-long  grief. 

And  "  O  James  !  "  she  said, —  "  My  James  ! "  she  said, — 

"  Alas  for  the  woeful  thing, 
That  a  poet  true  and  a  friend  of  man, 
In  desperate  days  of  bale  and  ban, 

Should  needs  be  born  a  King  !  " 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE: 

A  SONNET  SEQ  UENCE. 


A  Sonnet  is  a  moment's  monument, — 

Memorial  from  the  Soul's  eternity 

To  one  dead  deathless  hour.     Look  that  it  be, 
Whether  forlustral  rite  or  dire  portent, 
Of  its  own  arduous  fullness  reverent : 

Carve  it  in  ivory  or  in  ebony, 

As  Day  or  Night  may  rule  ;  and  let  Time  see 
Its  flowering  crest  impearled  and  orient. 

A  Sonnet  is  a  coin  :  its  face  reveals 

The  soul, —  its  converse,  to  what  Power  'tis  due  :  — 
Whether  for  tribute  to  the  august  appeals 

Of  Life,  or  dower  in  Love's'high  retinue, 
It  serve  :  or,  'inid  the  dark  wharf's  cavernous  breath, 
In  Charon's  palm  it  pay  the  toll  to  Death. 


PART  L 

YOUTH  A2JTD  CHANGE. 

SONNET  I. 

LOVE  ENTHRONED. 

I  MARKED  all  kindred  Powers  the  heart  finds  fair  :  — 
Truth,  with  awed  lips  ;  and  Hope,  with  eyes  upcast ; 
And  Fame,  whose  loud  wings  fan  the  ashen  Past 

To  signal  fires,  Oblivion's  flight  to  scare  ; 

And  Youth,  with  still  some  single  golden  hair 
Unto  his  shoulder  clinging,  since  the  last 
Embrace  wherein  two  sweet  arms  held  him  fast ; 

And  Life,  still  wreathing  flowers  for  Death  to  wear. 


250  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE. 

Love's  throne  was  not  with  these ;  but  far  above 
All  passionate  wind  of  welcome  and  farewell 

He  sat  in  breathless  bowers  they  dream  not  of  ; 
Though  Truth  foreknow  Love's  heart,  and  Hope 

foretell, 

And  Fame  be  for  Love's  sake  desirable, 
And  Youth  be  dear,  and  Life  be  sweet  to  Love. 


SO3OTET  II. 

BRIDAL  BIRTH. 

As  when  desire,  long  darkling,  dawns,  and  first 
The  mother  looks  upon  the  newborn  child, 
Even  so  my  Lady  stood  at  gaze  and  smiled 

When  her  soul  knew  at  length  the  Love  it  nurs'd. 

Born  with  her  Life,  creature  of  poignant  thirst 
And  exquisite  hunger,  at  her  heart  Love  lay 
Quickening  in  darkness,  till  a  voice  that  day 

Cried  on  him,  and  the  bonds  of  birth  were  burst. 

Now,  shadowed  by  his  wings,  our  faces  yearn 
Together,  as  his  fullgrown  feet  now  range 

The  grove,  and  his  warm  hands  our  couch  pre- 
pare : 
Till  to  his  song  our  bodiless  souls  in  turn 

Be  born  his  children,  when  Death's  nuptial  change 
Leaves  us  for  light  the  halo  of  his  hair. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  251 

SONNET  in. 

LOVE'S  TESTAMENT. 

O  THOU  who  at  Love's  hour  ecstatically 
Unto  my  heart  dost  ever  more  present, 
Clothed  with  the  fire,  thy  heart  his  testament  ; 

Whom  I  have  neared  and  felt  thy  breath  to  be 

The  inmost  incense  of  his  sanctuary  ; 

Who  without  speech  hast  owned  him,  and,  intent 
Upon  his  will,  thy  life  with  mine  hast  blent, 

And  murmured,  "  I  am  thine,  thou'rt  one  with  me!  " 

O  what  from  thee  the  grace,  to  me  the  prize, 
And  what  to  Love  the  glory, — when  the  Avhole 
Of  the  deep  stair  thou  tread'st  to  the  dim  shoal 
And  weary  water  of  the  place  of  sighs, 
And  there  dost  work  deliverance,  as  thine  eyes 
Draw  up  my  "prisoned  spirit  to  thy  soul  I 


SONNET  TV. 
LOVESIGHT. 

WHEN  do  I  see  thee  most,  beloved  one  ? 
When  in  the  light  the  spirits  of  mine  eyes 
Before  thy  face,  their  altar,  solemnize 

The  worship  of  that  Love  through  thee  made  known? 

Or  when  in  the  dusk  hours,  (we  two  alone,) 
Close-kissed  and  eloquent  of  still  replies 
The  twilight-hidden  glimmering  visage  lies, 

And  my  soul  only  sees  thy  soul  its  own  ? 

O  love,  my  love  !  if  I  no  more  should  see 
Thyself,  nor  on  the  earth  the  shadow  of  thee, 

Nor  image  of  thine  eyes  in  any  spring, — 
How  then  should  sound  up  Life's  darkening  slope 
The  ground-whirl  of  the  perished  leaves  of  Hope, 

The  wind  of  Death's  imperishable  wing  ? 


252  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE. 

SONNET  V. 

HEART'S    HOPE. 

BY  what  word's  power,  the  key  of  paths  untrod, 
Shall  I  the  difficult  deeps  of  Love  explore, 
Till  parted  waves  of  Song  yield  up  the  shore 

Even  as  that  sea  which  Israel  crossed  dryshod  ? 

For  lo  !  in  some  poor  rhythmic  period, 
Lady,  I  fain  would  tell  how  evermore 
Thy  soul  I  know  not  from  thy  body,  nor 

Thee  from  myself,  neither  our  love  from  God. 

Yea,  in  God's  name,  and  Love's  and  thine,  would  I 
Draw  from  one  loving  heart  such  evidence 

As  to  all  hearts  all  things  shall  signify  ; 
Tender  as  dawn's  first  hill-fire,  and  intense 
As  instantaneous  penetrating  sense, 

In  Spring's  birth-hour,  of  other  Springs  gone  by. 


SONKET   VI. 

THE  KISS. 

WHAT  smoldering  senses  in  death's  sick  delay 
Or  seizure  of  malign  vicissitude 
Can  rob  this  body  of  honor,  denude 

This  soul  of  wedding-raiment  worn  to-day  ? 

For  lo  !  even  now  my  lady's  lips  did  play 
With  these  my  lips  such  consonant  interlude 
As  laureled  Orpheus  longed  for  wrhen  he  wooed 

The  half -drawn  hungering  face  with  that  last  lay. 

I  was  a  child  beneath  her  touch, —  a  man 

When  breast  to  breast  we  clung,  even  I  and  she, — 
A  spirit  when  her  spirit  looked  through  me, — 
A  god  when  all  our  life-breath  met  to  fan 
Our  life-blood,  till  love's  emulous  ardors  ran, 
Fire  within  fire,  desire  in  deity. 


THE  &OtfS£  Of  LIF£.  253 

SONNET  VII. 

SUPREME  SURRENDER. 

To  all  the  spirits  of  Love  that  wander  by 

Along  his  love-sown  harvest-field  of  sleep 

My  lady  lies  apparent  ;  and  the  deep 
Calls  to  the  deep  ;  and  no  man  sees  but  I. 
The  bliss  so  long  afar,  at  length  so  nigh, 

Rests  their  attained.     Methinks  proud  Love  must 
weep 

When  Fate's  control  doth  from  his  harvest  reap 
The  sacred  hour  for  which  the  years  did  sigh. 

First  touched,  the  hand  now  warm  around  my  neck 
Taught  memory  long  to  mock  desire  :  and  lo  ! 
Across  my  breast  the  abandoned  hair  doth  flow, 
"Where  one  shorn  tress  long  stirred  the  longing  ache  : 
And  next  the  heart  that  trembled  for  its  sake 
Lies  the  queen-heart  in  sovereign  overthrow. 


vm. 
LOVE'S  LOVERS. 

SOME  ladies  love  the  jewels  in  Love's  zone 

And  gold-tipped  darts  he  hath  for  painless  play 
In  idle  scornful  hours  he  flings  away  ; 

And  some  that  listen  to  his  lute's  soft  tone 

Do  love  to  vaunt  the  silver  praise  their  own  ; 

Some  prize  his  blindfold  sight  ;  and  there  be  they 
Who  kissed  his  wings  which  brought  him  yesterday 

And  thank  his  wings  to-day  that  he  is  flown. 


254  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE. 

My  lady  only  loves  the  heart  of  Love  : 

Therefore  Love's  heart,  my  lady,  hath  for  thee 
His  bower  of  unimagined  flower  and  tree  : 
There  kneels  he  now,  and  all-anhungered  of 
Thine  eyes  gray-lit  in  shadowing  hair  above, 
Seals  with  thy  mouth  his  immortality. 


SONNET  IX. 

PASSION  AND  WORSHIP. 

ONE  flame- winged  brought  a  white-winged  harp-player 

Even  where  my  lady  and  I  lay  all  alone  ; 

Saying  :  "  Behold,  this  minstrel  is  unknown  ; 
Bid  him  depart,  for  I  am  minstrel  here  : 
Only  my  strains  are  to  Love's  dear  ones  dear." 

Then  said  I :    "  Through  thine  hautboy's  rapturous 
tone 

Unto  my  lady  still  this  harp  makes  moan, 
And  still  she  deems  the  cadence  deep  and  clear." 

Then  said  my  lady  :     "  Thou  art  Passion  of  Love, 
And  this  Love's  Worship  :  both  he  plights  to  me. 
Thy  mastering  music  walks  the  sunlit  sea  : 
But  where  wan  water  trembles  in  the  grbve 
And  the  wan  moon  is  all  the  light  thereof, 

This  harp  still  makes  my  name  its  voluntary." 


SONNET  x. 
THE  PORTRAIT. 

O  LORD  of  all  compassionate  control, 
O  Love  !  let  this  my  lady's  nicture  glow 
Under  my  hand  to  praisejjrfr  name,  and  show 

Even  of  her  inner  self  the  perfect  whole  : 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  255 

That  he  who  seeks  her  beauty's  furthest  goal, 
Beyond  the  light  that  the  sweet  glances  throw 
And  refluent  wave  of  the  sweet  smile,  may  know 

The  very  sky  and  sea-line  of  her  soul. 

Lo  !  it  is  done.     Above  the  enthroning  throat 

The  mouth's  mold  testifies  of  voice  and  kiss, 

The  shadowed  eyes  remember  and  foresee. 

Her  face  is  made  her  shrine.     Let  all  men  note 

That  in  all  years  (O  Love,  thy  gift  is  this  !) 

They  that  would  look  on  her  must  come  to  me. 


SONNET   XI. 

THE  LOVE-LETTER 

WARMED  by  her  hand  and  shadowed  by  her  hair 
As  close  she  leaned  and  poured  her  heart  through 

thee, 
Whereof  the  articulate  throbs  accompany 

The  smooth  black  stream  that  makes  thy  whiteness 
fair, — 

Sweet  fluttering  sheet,  even  of  her  breath  aware, — 
Oh  let  thy  silent  song  disclose  to  me 
That  soul  wherewith  her  lips  and  eyes  agree 

Like  married  music  in  Love's  answering  air. 

Fain  had  I  watched  her  when,  at  some  fond  thought, 
Her  bosom  to  the  writing  closelier  press'd, 
And  her  breast's  secrets  peered  into  her  breast ; 
When,  through  eyes  raised  an  instant,  her  soul  sought 
My  soul,  and  from  the  sudden  confluence  caught 
The  words  that  made  her  love  the  loveliest. 


5sd  THE  HOUSE  OP  LIFE. 

SONNET  XII. 

THE  LOVERS'  WALK. 

SWEET  twining  hedgeflowers  wind-stirred  in  no  wise" 
On  this  June  day  ;  and  hand  that  clings  in  hand  :  — 
Still  glades  ;  and  meeting  faces  scarcely  f ann'd  :  — 

An  osier-odored  stream  that  draws  the  skies 

Deep  to  its  heart  ;  and  mirrored  eyes  in  eyes  :  — 
Fresh  hourly  wonder  o'er  the  Summer  land 
Of  light  and  cloud  ;  and  two  souls  softly  spann'd 

With  one  o'erarching  heaven  of  smiles  and  sighs  :  — 

Even  such  their  path,  whose  bodies  lean  unto 
Each  other's  visible  sweetness  amorously, — 
Whose  passionate  hearts  lean  by  Love's  high  decree 

Together  on  his  heart  for  ever  true, 

As  the  cloud-foaming  firmamental  blue 
Rests  on  the  blue  line  of  a  foamless  sea. 


SONNET  xm. 
YOUTH'S  ANTIPHONY. 

"  I  LOVE  you,  sweet  :  how  can  you  ever  learn 
How  much  I  love  you  ? "  "  You  I  love  even  so, 
And  so  I  learn  it."     "  Sweet,  you  cannot  know 

How  fair  you  are."     "  If  fair  enough  to  earn 

Your  love,  so  much  is  all  my  love's  concern." 
"My  love  grows  hourly,  sweet."     "Mine  too  doth 

grow, 
Yet  love  seemed  full  so  many  hours  ago  !  " 

Thus  lovers  speak  till  kisses  claim  their  turn. 


THE*  HO  USE  OP  LIFE.  £57 

Ah  !  happy  they  to  whom  such  words  as  these 
In  youth  have  served  for  speech  the  whole  day  long, 
Hour  after  hour,  remote  from  the  world's  throng, 
Work,  contest,  fame,  all  life's  confederate  pleas, — 
What  while  Love  breathed  in  sighs  and  silences 
Through  two  blent  souls  one  rapturous  undersong. 


SONNET  XIV. 

YOUTH'S  SPRING-TRIBUTE. 

ON  this  sweet  bank  your  head  thrice  sweet  and  dear 
I  lay,  and  spread  your  hair  on  either  side, 
And  see  the  newborn  woodflowers  bashful-eyed 

Look  through  the  golden  tresses  here  and  there. 

On  these  debatable  borders  of  the  year 

Spring's  foot  half  falters  ;  scarce  she  yet  may  know 
The  leafless  blackthorn-blossom  from  the  snow  ; 

And  through  her  bowers  the  wind's  way  still  is  clear. 

But  April's  sun  strikes  down  the  glades  to-day  ; 
So  shut  your  eyes  upturned,  and  feel  my  kiss 

Creep,  as  the  Spring  now  thrills  through  every  spray, 
Up  your  warm  throat  to  your  warm  lips  :  for  this 
Is  even  the  hour  of  Love's  sworn  suitservice, 

With  whom  cold  hearts  are  counted  castaway. 


SONNET  xv. 
THE  BIRTH-BOND. 

HAVE  you  not  noted,  in  some  family 

Where  two  were  born  of  a  first  marriage-bed, 
How  still  they  own  their  gracious  bond,  though 

fed 

And  nursed  on  the  forgotten  breast  and  knee  ?  — 
17 


258  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE. 

How  to  their  father's  children  they  shall  be 
In  act  and  thought  of  one  goodwill  ;  but  each 
Shall  for  the  other  have,  in  silence  speech, 

And  in  a  word  complete  community  ? 

Even  so,  when  first  I  saw  you,  seemed  it,  love, 
That  among  souls  allied  to  mine  was  yet 

One  nearer  kindred  than  life  hinted  of. 

O  born  with  me  somewhere  that  men  forget, 
And  though  in  years  of  sight  and  sound  unmet, 

Known  for  my  soul's  birth-partner  well  enough  ! 


SONNET    XVI. 

A  DAY  OF  LOVE. 

THOSE  envied  places  which  do  know  her  well, 
And  are  so  scornful  of  this  lonely  place, 
Even  now  for  once  are  emptied  of  her  grace  : 

Nowhere  but  here  she  is  :  and  while  Love's  spell 

From  his  predominant  presence  doth  compel 
All  alien  hours,  an  outworn  populace, 
The  hours  of  Love  fill  full  the  echoing  space 

With  sweet  confederate  music  favorable. 

Now  many  memories  mak«  solicitous 

The  delicate  love-lines  of  her  mouth,  till,  lit 
With  quivering  fire,  the  words  take  wing  from  it ; 

As  here  between  our  kisses  we  sit  thus 
Speaking  of  things  remembered,  and  so  sit 

Speechless  while  things  forgotten  call  to  us. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  259 

SONNET   XVII. 

BEAUTY'S  PAGEANT. 

WHAT  dawn-pulse  at  the  heart  of  heaven,  or  last 
Incarnate  flower  of  culminating  day, — 
What  marshaled  marvels  on  the  skirts  of  May, 

Or  song  full-quired,  sweet  June's  encomiast  ; 

What  glory  of  chance  by  nature's  hand  amass'd 
Can  vie  with  all  those  moods  of  varying  grace 
Which  o'er  one  loveliest  woman's  form  and  face 

Within  this  hour,  within  this  room,,  have  pass'd  7 

Love's  very  vesture  and  elect  disguise 

Was  each  fine  movement, —  wonder  new-begot 
Of  lily  or  swan  or  swan-stemmed  galiot  ; 

Joy  to  his  sight  who  now  the  sadlier  sighs, 

Parted  again  ;  and  sorrow  yet  for  eyes 

Unborn,  that  read  these  words  and  saw  her  not. 


SONXET   XVIII. 

GENIUS  IN  BEAUTY. 

BEAUTY  like  hers  is  genius.     Not  the  call 
Of  Homer's  or  of  Dante's  heart  sublime, — 
Not  Michael's  hand  furrowing  the  zones  of  time, — 

Is  more  with  compassed  mysteries  musical  ; 

Nay,  not  in  Spring's  or  Summer's  sweet  footfall 
More  gathered  gifts  exuberant  Life  bequeathes 
Than  doth   this  sovereign   face,   whose  love-spell 
breathes 

Even  from  its  shadowed  contour  on  the  wall. 


260  THE  HOUSE  OP  LIFE. 

As  many  men  are  poets  in  their  youth, 

But  for  one  sweet-strung  soul  the  wires  prolong 
Even  through  all  change  the  indomitable  song  ; 
So  in  likewise  the  envenomed  years,  whose  tooth 
Rends  shallower  grace  with  ruin  void  of  ruth, 
Upon  this  beauty's  power  shall  wreak  no  wrong. 


SONNET    XIX. 

SILENT   NOOK 

YOUR  hands  lie  open  in  the  long  fresh  grass, — 
The  finger-points  look  through  like  rosy  blooms  : 
Your  eyes  smile  peace.     The  pasture  gleams  and 
glooms 

'Neath  billowing  skies  that  scatter  and  amass. 

All  round  our  nest,  far  as  the  eye  can  pass, 
Are  golden  kingcup-fields  with  silver  edge 
Where  the  cow-parsley  skirts  the  hawthorn-hedge. 

'Tis  visible  silence,  still  as  the  hour-glass. 

Deep  in  the  sun-searched  growths  the  dragon-fly 
Hangs  like  a  blue  thread  loosened  from  the  sky  :  — 

So  this  wing'd  hour  is  dropt  to  us  from  above. 
Oh  !  clasp  we  to  our  hearts,  for  deathless  dower, 
This  close-companioned  inarticulate  hour 

When  twofold  silence  was  the  song  of  love. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  261 

SONNET  XX. 

GRACIOUS  MOONLIGHT. 

EVEN  as  the  moon  grows  queenlier  in  mid-space 
When  the  sky  darkens,  and  her  cloud-rapt  car 
Thrills  with  intenser  radiance  from  afar, — 

So  lambent,  lady,  beams  thy  sovereign  grace 

When  the  drear  soul  desires  thee.     Of  that  face 
What  shall  be  said, —  which,  like  a  governing  star, 
Gathers  and  garners  from  all  things  that  are 

Their  silent  penetrative  loveliness  ? 

O'er  water  daisies  and  wild  waifs  of  Spring, 

There  where  the  iris  rears  its  gold- crowned   sheaf 
With  flowering  rush  and  scept'red  arrow-leaf, 
So  have  I  marked  Queen  Dian,  in  bright  ring 
Of  cloud  above  and  wave  below,  take  wing 

And  chase  night's  gloom,  as  thou  the  spirit's  grief. 


SONNET    XXI. 

LOVE-SWEETNESS. 

SWEET  dimness  of  her  loosened  hair's  downfall 

About  thy  face  ;  her  sweet  hands  round  thy  head 
In  gracious  fostering  union  garlanded  ; 

Her  tremulous  smiles  ;  her  glances'  sweet  recall 

Of  love  ;  her  murmuring  sighs  memorial ; 

Her  mouth's  culled  sweetness  by  thy  kisses  shed 
On  cheeks  and  neck  and  eyelids,  and  so  led 

Back  to  her  mouth  which  answers  there  for  all :  — 

What  sweeter  than  these  things,  except  the  thing 
In  lacking  which  all  these  would  lose  their  sweet  :  — 
The  confident  heart's  still  fervor  :  the  swift  beat 
And  soft  subsidence  of  the  spirit's  wing, 
Then  when  it  feels,  in  cloud-girt  wayfaring, 
The  breath  of  kindred  plumes  against  its  feet  ? 


262  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE. 

SONNET   XXTI. 

HEART'S  HAVEN. 

SOMETIMES  she  is  a  child  within  mine  arms, 

Cowering   beneath    dark    wings   that   love    must 

chase, — 
With  still  tears  showering  and  averted  face, 

Inexplicably  filled  with  faint  alarms  : 

And  oft  from  mine  own  spirit's  hurtling  harms 
I  crave  the  refuge  of  her  deep  embrace, — 
Against  all  ills  the  fortified  strong  place 

And  sweet  reserve  of  sovereign  counter- charms. 

And  Love,  our  light  at  night  and  shade  at  noon, 
Lulls  us  to  rest  with  songs,  and  turns  away 
All  shafts  of  shelterless  tumultuous  day. 

Like  the  moon's  growth,  his  face  gleams  through  his 
tune  ; 

And  as  soft  waters  warble  to  the  moon, 
Our  answering  spirits  chime  one  roundelay. 


SONNET   xxin. 
LOVE'S  BAUBLES. 

I  STOOD  where  Love  in  brimming  armfuls  bore 
Slight  wanton  flowers  and  foolish  toys  of  fruit : 
And  round  him  ladies  thronged  in  warm  pursuit, 

Fingered  and  lipped  and  proffered  the  strange  store. 

And  from  one  hand  the  petal  and  the  core 

Savored  of  sleep  ;  and  cluster  and  curled  shoot 
Seemed  from  another  hand  like  shame's  salute, — 

Gifts  that  I  felt  my  cheek  was  blushing  for. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  263 

At  last  Love  bade  ray  Lady  give  the  same  : 
And  as  I  looked,  the  dew  was  light  thereon  ; 
And  as  I  took  them,  at  her  touch  they  shone 

With  inmost  heaven-hue  of  the  heart  of  flame. 

And  then  Love  said  :  "  Lo  !  when  the  hand  is  hers, 
Follies  of  love  are  love's  true  ministers." 


SOXNET    XXTV. 

PRIDE  OF  YOUTH.  < 

EVEN  as  a  child,  of  sorrow  that  we  give 
The  dead,  but  little  in  his  heart  can  find, 
Since  without  need  of  thought  to  his  clear  mind 

Their  turn  it  is  to  die  and  his  to  live  :  — 

Even  so  the  winged  New  Love  smiles  to  receive 
Along  his  eddying  plumes  the  auroral  wind, 
Nor,  forward  glorying,  casts  one  look  behind 

Where  night-rack  shrouds  the  Old  Love  fugitive. 

There  is  a  change  in  every  hour's  recall, 
And  the  last  cowslip  in  the  fields  we  see 
On  the  same  day  with  the  first  corn-poppy. 

Alas  for  hourly  change  !     Alas  for  all 

The  loves  that  from  his  hand  proud  Youth  lets  fall, 
Even  as  the  beads  of  a  told  rosary  ! 


264  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE. 

SONNET  XXV. 

WINGED  HOURS. 

EACH  hour  until  we  meet  is  as  a  bird 

That  wings  from  far  his  gradual  way  along 
The  rustling  covert  of  my  soul, —  his  song 

Still  loudlier  trilled  through  leaves  more  deeply  stirr'd  : 

But  at  the  hour  of  meeting,  a  clear  word 

Is  every  note  he  sings,  in  Love's  own  tongue  ; 
Yet,  Love,  thou  know'st  the  sweet  strain  suffers 
wrong, 

Full  oft  through  our  contending  joys  unheard. 
i 

What  of  that  hour  at  last,  when  for  her  sake 
No  wing  may  fly  to  me  nor  song  may  flow  ; 
When,  wandering  round  my  life  unleaved,  I  know 

The  bloodied  feathers  scattered  in  the  brake, 
And  think  how  she,  far  from  me,  with  like  eyes 

Sees  through  the  untunef  ul  bough  the  wingless  skies  ? 


SONNET  xxvi. 
MID-RAPTURE. 

THOU  lovely  and  beloved,  thou  my  love  ; 

Whose  kiss  seems  still  the  first ;  whose  summoning 
eyes, 

Even  now,  as  for  our  love-world's  new  sunrise, 
Shed  very  dawn  ;  whose  voice,  attuned  above 
All  modulation  of  the  deep-bowered  dove, 

Is  like  a  hand  laid  softly  on  the  soul ; 

Whose  hand  is  like  a  sweet  voice  to  control 
Those  worn  tired  brows  it  hath  the  keeping  of  :  — 


THE  HO  USE  OF  LIFE.  265 

What  word  can  answer  to  thy  word, —  what  gaze 
To  thine,  which  now  absorbs  within  its  sphere 
My  worshiping  face,  till  I  am  mirrored  there 

Light-circled  in  a  heaven  of  deep-drawn  rays  ? 

What  clasp,  what  kiss  mine  inmost  heart  can  prove, 
O  lovely  and  beloved,  0  my  love  ? 


SONNET  XXVII. 

HEART'S  COMPASS. 

SOMETIMES  thou  seem'st  not  as  thyself  alone, 
But  as  the  meaning  of  all  things  that  are  ; 
A  breathless  wonder,  shadowing*  forth  afar 

Some  heavenly  solstice  hushed  and  halcyon  ; 

Whose  unstirred  lips  are  music's  visible  tone  ; 
Whose  eyes  the  sun-gate  of  the  soul  unbar, 
Being  of  its  furthest  fires  oracular  ;  — 

The  evident  heart  of  all  life  sown  and  mown. 

Even  such  Love  is  ;  and  is  not  thy  name  Love  ? 
Yea,  by  thy  hand  the  Love-god  rends  apart 
All  gathering  clouds  of  Night's  ambiguous  art  ; 

Flings  them  far  down,  and  sets  thine  eyes  above  ; 

And  simply,  as  some  gage  of  flower  or  glove, 
Stakes  with  a  smile  the  world  against  thy  heart. 


SONNET   XXVIII. 

SOUL-LIGHT. 

WHAT  other  woman  could  be  loved,  like  you, 
Or  how  of  you  should  love  possess  his  fill  ? 
After  the  fullness  of  all  rapture,  still, — 


266  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE. 

As  at  the  end  of  some  deep  avenue 
A  tender  glamour  of  day, —  there  comes  to  view 
Far  in  your  eyes  a  yet  more  hungering  thrill, — 
Such  fire  as  Love's  soul-winnowing  hands  distill 
Even  from  his  inmost  ark  of  light  and  dew. 

And  as  the  traveler  triumphs  with  the  sun, 

Glorying  in  heat's  mid-height,  yel  startide  brings 
Wonder  new-born,  and  still  fresh  transport  springs 

From  limpid  lambent  hours  of  day  begun  ;  — 

Even  so,  through  eyes  and  voice,  your  soul  doth 

move 
My  soul  with  changeful  light  of  infinite  love. 


SONNET  XXIX. 

THE  MOOfrSTAR 

LADY,  I  thank  thee  for  thy  loveliness, 

Because  my  lady  is  more  lovely  still. 

Glorying  I  gaze,  and  yield  with  glad  goodwill 
To  thee  thy  tribute  ;  by  whose  sweet-spun  dress 
Of  delicate  life  Love  labors  to  assess 

My  lady's  absolute  queendom  ;  saying,  "  Lo  ! 

How  high  this  beauty  is,  which  yet  doth  show 
But  as  that  beauty's  sovereign  votaress." 

Lady,  I  saw  thee  with  her,  side  by  side  ; 

And  as,  when  night's  fair  fires  their  queen  surround, 

An  emulous  star  too  near  the  moon  will  ride, — 
Even  so  thy  rays  within  her  luminous  bound 
Were  traced  no  more  ;  and  by  the  light  so  drown'd, 

Lady,  not  thou  but  she  was  glorified. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  ^  267 

SONNET    XXX. 

LAST    FIRE. 

LOVE,  through  your  spirit  and  mine  what  summer  eve 
Now  glows  with  glory  of  all  things  possess'd, 
Since  this  day's  sun  of  rapture  filfed  the  west 

And  the  light  sweetened  as  the  fire  took  leave  ? 

Awhile  now  softlier  let  your  bosom  heave, 
As  in  Love's  harbor,  even  that  loving  breast, 
All  care  takes  refuge  while  we  sink  to  rest, 

And  mutual  dreams  the  bygone  bliss  retrieve. 

Many  the  days  that  "Winter  keeps  in  store, 

Sunless  throughout,  or  whose  brief  sun-glimpses 
Scarce  shed  the  heaped  snow  through  the  naked  trees. 

This  day  at  least  was  Summer's  paramour, 

Sun-colored  to  the  imperishable  core 

With  sweet  well-being  of  love  and  full  heart's  ease. 


SONNET  XXXI. 

HER  GIFTS. 

HIGH  grace,  the  dower  of  queens  ;  and  therewithal 

Some  wood-born  wonder's  sweet  simplicity  ; 

A  glance  like  water  brimming  with  the  sky 
Or  hyacinth-light  where  forest-shadows  fall  ; 
Such  thrilling  pallor  of  cheek  as  doth  enthrall 

The  heart  ;  a  mouth  whose  passionate  forms  imply 

All  music  and  all  silence  held  thereby  ; 
Deep  golden  locks,  her  sovereign  coronal  ; 
A  round  reared  neck,  meet  column  of  Love's  shrine 

To  cling  to  when  the  heart  takes  sanctuary  ; 

Hands  which  for  ever  at  Love's  bidding  be, 
And  soft-stirred  feet  still  answering  to  liis  sign  :  — 

These  are  her  gifts,  as  tongue  may  tell  them  o'er. 

Breathe  low  her  name,  my  soul  ;  for  that  means 
more. 


268  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE. 

SONNET   XXXII. 

EQUAL  TROTH. 

NOT  by  one  measure  mayst  thou  mete  our  love  ; 
For  how  should  I  be  loved  as  I  loved  thee  ?  — 
I,  graceless,  joyless,  lacking  absolutely 

All  gifts  that  with  thy  queenship  best  behoove  ;  — 

Thou,  throned  in  every  heart's  elect  alcove, 

And  crowned  with  garlands  culled  from  every  tree, 
Which  for  no  head  but  thine,  by  Love's  decree, 

All  beauties  and  all  mysteries  interwove. 

But  here  thine  eyes  and  lips  yield  soft  rebuke  :  — 
"  Then  only,"  (say'st  thou)  "  could  I  love  thee  less, 
When  thou  couldst  doubt  my  love's  equality." 

Peace,  sweet !  If  not 'to  sum  but  worth  we  look, — 
Thy  heart's  transcendence,  not  my  heart's  excess, — 
Then  more  a  thousandfold  thou  lov'st  than  I. 


SONNET  xxxm. 
VENUS  VICTRIX. 

COULD  Juno's  self  more  sovereign  presence  wear 
Than  thou,  'mid  other  ladies  throned  in  grace  ?  — 
Or  Pallas,  when  thou  bend'st  with  soul-stilled  face 

O'er  poet's  page  gold-shadowed  in  thy  hair  ? 

Dost  thou  than  Venus  seem  less  heavenly  fair 
When  o'er  the  sea  of  love's  tumultuous  trance 
Hovers  thy  smile,  and  mingles  with  thy  glance 

That  sweet  voice  like  the  last  wave  murmuring  there  ? 

Before  such  triune  loveliness  divine 

Awestruck  I  ask,  which  goddess  here  most  claims 
The  prize  that,  howsoe'er  adjudged,  is  thine  ? 

Then  Love  breathes  low  the  sweetest  of  thy  names; 
And  Venus  Victrix  to  my  heart  doth  bring 
Herself,  the  Helen  of  her  guerdoning. 


T#£  If  0  USE  OF  LIFE.  269 

SONNET  XXXIV. 

THE  DARK  GLASS. 

NOT  I  myself  know  all  my  love  for  thee  : 

How  should  1  reach  so  far,  who  cannot  weigh 
To-morrow's  dower  by  gage  of  yesterday  ? 

Shall  birth  and  death,  and  all  dark  names  that  be 

As  doors  and  windows  bared  to  some  loud  sea, 

Lash  deaf  mine  ears  and  blind  my  face  with  spray  ; 
And  shall  my  sense  pierce  love, —  the  last  relay 

And  ultimate  outpost  of  eternity  ? 

Lo  !  what  am  I  to  Love,  the  lord  of  all  ? 

One  murmuring  shell  he  gathers  from  the  sand, — 
One  little  heart-flame  sheltered  in  his  hand. 

Yet  through  thine  eyes  he  grants  me  clearest  call 

And  veriest  touch  of  powers  primordial 
That  any  hour -girt  life  may  understand. 


SONNET     XXXV. 

THE  LAMP'S  SHRINE. 

SOMETIMES  I  fain  would  find  in  thee  some  fault, 
That  I  might  love  thee  still  in  spite  of  it, 
Yet  how  should  our  Lord  Love  curtail  one  whit 

Thy  perfect  praise  whom  most  he  would  exalt  ? 

Alas  !  he  can  but  make  my  heart's  low  vault 
Even  in  men's  sight  unworthier,  being  lit 
By  thee,  who  thereby  show'st  more  exquisite 

Like  fiery  chrysoprase  in  deep  basalt. 

Yet  will  I  nowise  shrink  ;  but  at  Love's  shrine 
Myself  within  the  beams  his  brow  doth  dart 
Will  set  the  flashing  jewel  of  thy  heart 

In  that  dull  chamber  where  it  deigns  to  shine  : 
For  lo  !  in  honor  of  thine  excellencies 
My  heart  takes  pride  to  show  how  poor  it  is. 


270  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE. 

SONNET   XXXVI. 

LIFE-IN-LOVE. 

NOT  in  thy  body  is  thy  life  at  all 

But  in  this  lady's  lips  and  hands  and  eyes  ; 
Through  these  she  yields  thee  life  that  vivifies 

What  else  were  sorrow's  servant  and  death's  thrall. 

Look  on  thyself  without  her,  and  recall 

The  waste  remembrance  and  forlorn  surmise 
That  lived  but  in  a  dead-drawn  breath  of  sighs 

O'er  vanished  hours  and  hours  eventual. 

Even  so  much  life  hath  the  poor  tress  of  hair 
Which,  stored  apart,  is  all  love  hath  to  show 
For  heart-beats  and  for  fire-heats  long  ago  ; 

Even  so  much  life  endures  unknown,  even  where, 
'Mid  change  the  changeless  night  environeth, 
Lies  all  that  golden  hair  undimmed  in  death. 


SONNET   XXXVII. 

THE  LOVE-MOON. 

"  WHEN  that  dead  face,  bowered  in  the  furthest  years, 
Which  once  was  all  the  life  years  held  for  thee, 
Can  now  scarce  bid  the  tides  of  memory 

Cast  on  thy  soul  a  little  spray  of  tears, — 

How  canst  thou  gaze  into  those  eyes  of  hers 
Whom  now  thy  heart  delights  in,  and  not  see 
Within  each  orb  Love's  philtred  euphrasy 

Make  them  of  buried  troth  remembrancers  ?  " 

"  Nay,  pitiful  Love,  nay,  loving  Pity  !     Well 

Thou  knowest  that  in  these  twain  I  have  confess'd 

Two  very  voices  of  thy  summoning  bell. 

Nay,  Master,  shall  not  Death  make  manifest 

In  these  the  culminant  changes  which  approve 

The  love-moon  that  must  light  my  soul  to  Love  ?  " 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  271 

SONNET     XXXVIII. 

THE  MORROW'S  MESSAGE. 

"  THOU  Ghost,  "  I  said,  "  and  is  thy  name  To-day  ? — 
Yesterday's  son,  with  such  an  abject  brow  !  — 
And  can  To-morrow  be  more  pale  than  thou  ?  " 

While  yet  I  spoke,  the  silence  answered  :  "  Yea, 

Henceforth  our  issue  is  all  grieved  and  gray, 
And  each  beforehand  makes  such  poor  avow 
As  of  old  leaves  beneath  the  budding  bough 

Or  night-drift  that  the  sundawn  shreds  away." 

Then  cried  I  :  "  Mother  of  many  malisons, 
O  Earth,  receive  me  to  thy  dusty  bed  !  " 
But  therewithal  the  tremulous  silence  said  : 
"  Lo  !  Love  yet  bids  thy  lady  greet  thee  once  :  — 
Yea,  twice, —  whereby  thy  life  is  still  the  sun's  ; 
And  thrice, — whereby  the  shadow  of  death  is  dead." 


SONNET   XXXIX. 

SLEEPLESS  DREAMS. 

GIRT  in  dark  growths,  yet  glimmering  with  one  star, 

O  night  desirous  as  the  nights  of  youth  ! 

Why  should  my  heart  within  thy  spell,  forsooth, 
Now  beat,  as  the  bride's  finger-pulses  are 
Quickened  within  the  girdling  golden  bar? 

What  wings  are  these  that  fan  my  pillow  smooth  ? 

And  why  does  Sleep,  waved  back  by  Joy  and  Ruth, 
Tread  softly  round  and  gaze  at  me  from  far  ? 

Nay,  night  deep-leaved  !     And  would  Love  feign  in 

thee 

Some  shadowy  palpitating  grove  that  bears 
Rest  for  man's  eyes  and  music  for  his  ears  ? 

O  lonely  night !  are  thou  not  known  to  me, 

A  thicket  hung  with  masks  of  mockery 

And  watered  with  the  wasteful  warmth  of  tears  ? 


272  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE. 

SONNET   XL. 

SEVERED  SELVES. 

Two  separate  divided  silences, 

Which,  brought  together,  would  find  loving  voice  ; 

Two  glances  which  together  would  rejoice 
In  love,  now  lost  like  stars  beyond  dark  trees  ; 
Two  hands  apart  whose  touch  alone  gives  ease  ; 

Two  bosoms  which,  heart-shrined  with  mutual  flame, 

Would,  meeting  in  one  clasp,  be  made  the  same  ; 
Two  souls,   the   shores  wave-mocked   of   sundering 
seas  :  — 

Such  are  we  now.     Ah  !  may  our  hope  forecast 
Indeed  one  hour  again,  when  on  this  stream 
Of    darkened    love    once    more    the    light    shall 

gleam  ?  — 

An  hour  how  slow  to  come,  how  quickly  past, — 

Which  blooms  and  fades,  and  only  leaves  at  last, 

Faint  as  shed  flowers,  the  attenuated  dream. 


SONNET   XLI. 

THROUGH  DEATH  TO  LOVE. 

LIKE  labor-laden  moonclouds  faint  to  flee 

From  winds  that  sweep  the  winter-bitten  wold, — 
Like  multiform  circumfluence  manifold 

Of  night's  flood-tide, —  like  terrors  that  agree 

Of  hoarse-tongued  fire  and  inarticulate  sea, — 

Even  such,  within  some  glass  dimmed  by  our  breath, 
Our  hearts  discern  wild  images  of  Death, 

Shadows  and  shoals  that  edge  eternity. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  273 

Howbeit  athwart  Death's  imminent  shade  doth  soar 
One  Power,  than  flow  of  stream  or  flight  of  dove 
Sweeter  to  glide  around,  to  brood  above. 
Tell  me,  my  heart, —  what  angel-greeted  door 
Or  threshold  of  wing- winnowed  threshing-floor 

Hath  guest  fire-fledged  as  thine,  whose  lord  is  Love  ? 


SONNET  XLII. 

HOPE  OVERTAKEN. 

I  DEEMED  thy  garments,  O  my  Hope,  were  gray, 
So  far  I  viewed  thee.  Now  the  space  between 
Is  passed  at  length  ;  and  garmented  in  green 

Even  as  in  days  of  yore  thou  stand'st  to-day. 

Ah  God  !  and  but  for  lingering  dull  dismay, 
On  all  that  road  our  footsteps  erst  had  been 
Even  thus  commingled,  and  our  shadows  seen 

Blent  on  the  hedgerows  and  the  water-way. 

O  Hope  of  mine  whose  eyes  are  living  love, 

No  eyes  but  hers, —  O  Love  and  Hope  the  same  ! 

Lean  close  to  me,  for  now  the  sinking  sun 
That  warmed  our  feet  scarce  gilds  our  hair  above. 
O  hers  thy  voice  and  very  hers  thy  name  \ 
Alas,  cling  round  me,  for  the  day  is  done  ! 


SONNET  XLIII. 

LOVE  AND  HOPE. 

BLESS  love  and  hope.  Full  many  a  withered  year 
Whirled  past  us,  eddying  to  its  chill  doomsday  ; 
And  clasped  together  where  the  blown  leaves  lay, 

We  long  have  knelt  and  wept  full  many  a  tear. 

Yet  lo  !  one  hour  at  last,  the  Spring's  compeer, 
Flutes  softly  to  us  from  some  green  byway  : 
Those  years,  those  tears  are  dead,  but  only  they  :  — 

Bless  love  and  hope,  true  soul ;  for  we  are  here. 


274  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE. 

Cling  heart  to  heart  ;  nor  of  this  hour  demand 
Whether  in  very  truth,  when  we  are  dead, 
Our  hearts  shall  wake  to  know  Love's  golden  head 

Sole  sunshine  of  the  imperishable  land  ; 

Or  but  discern,  through  night's  unfeatured  scope, 
Scorn-fired  at  length  the  illusive  eyes  of  Hope. 


SONNET  XLIV. 

CLOUD  AND  WIND. 

LOVE,  should  I  fear  death  most  for  you  or  me  ? 
Yet  if  you  die,  can  I  not  follow  you, 
Forcing  the  straits  of  change?     Alas  !  but  who 

Shall  wrest  a  bond  from  night's  inveteracy, 

Ere  yet  my  hazardous  soul  put  forth,  to  be 

Her  warrant  against  all  her  haste  might  rue?  — 
Ah  !  in  your  eyes  so  reached  what  dumb  adieu, 

What  unsunned  gyres  of  waste  eternity  ? 

And  if  I  die  the  first,  shall  death  be  then 

A  lampless  watchtower  whence  I  see  you  weep?  — 
Or  (woe  is  me  !)  a  bed  wherein  my  sleep 
Ne'er  notes  (as  death's  dear  cup  at  last  you  drain), 
The  hour  when  you  too  learn  that  all  is  vain 

And  that  Hope  sows  what  Love  shall  never  reap  ? 


SONNET    XLV. 

SECRET  PARTING. 

BECAUSE  our  talk  was  of  the  cloud-control 

And  moon-track  of  the  journeying  face  of  Fate, 
Her  tremulous  kisses  faltered  at  love's  gate 

And  her  eyes  dreamed  against  a  distant  goal  : 

But  soon,  remembering  her  how  brief  the  whole 
Of  joy,  which  its  own  hours  annihilate, 
Her  set  gaze  gathered,  thirstier  than  of  late, 

And  as  she  kissed,  her  mouth  became  her  soul. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  275 

Thence  in  what  ways  we  wandered,  and  how  strove 
To  build  with  fire-tried  vows  the  piteous  home 
Which   memory   haunts   and    whither   sleep  may 
roam, — 

They  only  know  for  whom  the  roof  of  Love 

Is  the  still-seated  secret  of  the  grove, 

Nor  spire  may  rise  nor  bell  be  heard  therefrom. 


SONNET  XLVI. 

PARTED   LOVE. 

WHAT  shall  be  said  of  this  embattled  day 
And  armed  occupation  of  this  night 
By  all  thy  foes  beleaguered, —  now  when  sight 

Nor  sound  denotes  the  loved  one  far  away  ? 

Of  these  thy  vanquished  hours  what  shalt  thou  say, — 
As  every  sense  to  which  she  dealt  delight 
Now  labors  lonely  o'er  the  stark  noon-height 

To  reach  the  sunset's  desolate  disarray  ? 

Stand  still,  fond  fettered  wretch  !  while  Memory's  art 
Parades  the  Past  before  thy  face,  and  lures 
Thy  spirit  to  her  passionate  portraitures  : 
Till  the  tempestuous  tide-gates  flung  apart 
Flood  with  wild  will  the  hollows  of  thy  heart, 

And  thy  heart  rends  thee,  and  thy  body  endures. 


SONNET  XL VII. 

BROKEN  MUSIC. 


THE  mother  will  not  turn,  who  thinks  she  hears 
Her  nursling's  speech  first  grow  articulate  ; 
But  breathless  with  averted  eyes  elate 


276  THE  HOUSE  OP  LIFE. 

She  sits,  with  open  lips  and  open  ears, 

That  it  may  call  her  twice.     'Mid  doubts  and  fears 
Thus  oft  my  soul  has  hearkened  ;  till  the  song, 
A  central  moan  for  days,  at  length  found  tongue, 

And  the  sweet  music  welled  and  the  sweet  tears. 

But  now,  whatever  while  the  soul  is  fain 
To  list  that  wonted  murmur,  as  it  were 

The  speech-bound  sea-shell's  low  importunate  strain, — 
No  breath  of  song,  thy  voice  alone  is  there, 

O  bitterly  beloved  !  and  all  her  gain 
Is  but  the  pang  of  unpermitted  prayer. 


SONNET    XLVIII. 

DEATH-IN-LOVE. 

THERE  came  an  image  in  Life's  retinue 

That  had  Love's  wings  and  bore  his  gonfalon  : 
Fair  was  the  web,  and  nobly  wrought  thereon, 

O  soul-sequestered  face,  thy  form  and  hue  ! 

Bewildering  sounds,  such  as  Spring  wakens  to, 

Shook  in  its  folds  ;  and  through  my  heart  its  power 
Sped  trackless  as  the  immemorable  hour 

When  birth's  dark  portal  groaned  and  all  was  new. 

But  a  veiled  woman  followed,  and  she  caught 
The  banner  round  its  staff,  to  furl  and  cling, — 
Then  plucked  a  feather  from  the  bearer's  wing, 

And  held  it  to  his  lips  that  stirred  it  not, 

And  said  to  me,  "  Behold,  there  is  no  breath  : 
I  and  this  Love  are  one,  and  I  am  Death." 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  277 

SONNETS     XXIX.,     L.,    LI.,   Lit. 

WTLLOWWOOD. 

i. 

I  SAT  with  Love  upon  a  woodside  well, 

Leaning  across  the  water,  I  and  he  ; 

Nor  ever  did  he  speak  nor  looked  at  me, 
But  touched  his  lute  wherein  was  audible 
The  certain  secret  thing  he  had  to  tell : 

Only  our  mirrored  eyes  met  silently 

In  the  low  wave  ;  and  that  sound  came  to  be 
The  passionate  voice  I  knew  ;  and  my  tears  fell. 

And  at  their  fall,  his  eyes  beneath  grew  hers  ; 
And  with  his  foot  and  with  his  wing-feathers 

He  swept  the  spring  that  watered  my  heart's  drouth. 
Then  the  dark  ripples  spread  to  waving  hair, 
And  as  I  stooped,  her  own  lips  rising  there 

Bubbled  with  brimming  kisses  at  my  mouth, 

IT. 

AND  now  Love  sang  :  but  his  was  such  a  song, 
So  meshed  with  half-remembrance  hard  to  free, 
As  souls  disused  in  death's  sterility 

May  sing  when  the  new  birthday  tarries  long. 

And  I  was  made  aware  of  a  dumb  throng 
That  stood  aloof,  one  form  by  every  tree, 
All  mournful  forms,  for  each  was  I  or  she, 

The  shades  of  those  our  days  that  had  no  tongue. 

They  looked  on  us,  and  knew  us  and  were  known  ; 
While  fast  together,  alive  from  the  abyss, 
Clung  the  soul-wrung  implacable  close  kiss  ; 
And  pity  of  self  through  all  made  broken  moan 
Which  said,  "  For  once,  for  once,  for  once  alone  ! " 
And  still  Love  sang,  and  what  he  sang  was  this :  — 


278  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE. 

III. 

"  O  YE,  all  ye  that  walk  in  Willowwood, 

That  walk  with  hollow  faces  burning  white  ; 
"What  fathom-depth  of  soul-struck  widowhood, 

What  long,  what  longer  hours,  one  lifelong  night, 
Ere  ye  again,  who  so  in  vain  have  wooed 

Your  last  hope  lost,  who  so  in  vain  invite 
Your  lips  to  that  their  unf orgotten  food, 

Ere  ye,  ere  ye  again  shall  see  the  light  ! 

Alas  !    the  bitter  banks  in  Willowwood, 

With  tear-spurge  wan,  with  blood-wort  burning  red ; 

Alas  !  if  ever  such  a  pillow  could 

Steep  deep  the  soul  in  sleep  till  she  were  dead, — 

Better  all  life  forget  her  than  this  thing, 

That  Willowwood  should  hold  her  wandering  !  " 


rv. 

So  sang  he  :  and  as  meeting  rose  and  rose 
Together  cling  through  the  wind's  wellaway 
Nor  change  at  once,  yet  near  the  end  of  day 

The    leaves    drop    loosened    where   the    heart-stain 
glows, — 

So  when  the  song  died  did  the  kiss  unclose  ; 

And  her  face   fell  back  drowned,  and  was  as  gray 
As  its  gray  eyes  ;  and  if  it  ever  may 

Meet  mine  again  I  know  not  if  Love  knows. 

Only  I  know  that  I  leaned  low  and  drank 

A  long  draught  from  the  water  where  she  sank, 

Her  breath  and  all  her  tears  and  all  her  soul : 
And  as  I  leaned,  I  know  I  felt  Love's  face 
Pressed  on  my  neck  with  moan  of  pity  and  grace, 

Till  both  our  heads  were  in  his  aureole. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  279 

SONNET    LIU. 

WITHOUT  HER. 

WHAT  of  her  glass  without  her  ?  The  blank  gray 
There  where  the  pool  is  blind  of  the  moon's  face. 
Her  dress  without  her  ?  The  tossed  empty  space 

Of  cloud-rack  whence  the  moon  has  passed  away. 

Her  paths  without  her  ?  Day's  appointed  sway 
Usurped  by  desolate  night.     Her  pillowed  place 
Without  her  ?  Tears,  ah  me  !  for  love's  good  grace, 

And  cold  forgetfulness  of  night  or  day. 

What  of  the  heart  without  her  ?  Nay,  poor  heart, 
Of  thee  what  word  remains  ere  speech  be  still? 
A  wayfarer  by  barren  ways  and  chill, 
Steep  ways  and  weary,  without  her  thou  art, 
Where  the  long  cloud,  the  long  wood's  counterpart, 
Sheds  doubled  darkness  up  the  laboring  hill. 


SONNET  LIV. 
LOVE'S  FATALITY. 

SWEET  LOVE, —  but  oh  !  most  dread  Desire  of  Love 
Life-thwarted.     Linked  in  gyves  I  saw  them  stand, 
Love  shackled  with  Vain-longing,  hand  to  hand  : 

And  one  was  eyed  as  the  blue  vault  above  : 

But  hope  tempestuous  like  a  fire-cloud  hove 
I'  the  othei''s  gaze,  even  as  in  his  whose  wand 
Vainly  all    night    with    spell-wrought  power  has 
spann'd 

The  unyielding  caves  of  some  deep  treasure-trove. 

Also  his  lips,  two  writhen  flakes  of  flame, 

Made  moan  :  "  Alas  O  Love,  thus  leashed  with  me  ! 
Wing-footed  thou,  wing-shouldered,  once  born  free  : 
And  I,  thy  cowering  self,  in  chains  grown  tame, — 
Bound  to  thy  body  and  soul,  named  with  thy  name, — 
Life's  iron  heart,  even  Love's  Fatality." 


280  THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE. 

SONNET   LV. 

STILLBORN  LOVE. 

THE  hour  which  might  have  been  yet  might  not  be, 
Which  man's  and  woman's    heart  conceived  and 

bore 
Yet  whereof  life  was  barren, —  on  what  shore 

Bides  it  the  breaking  of  Time's  weary  sea  ? 

Bondchild  of  all  consummate  joys  set  free, 

It  somewhere  sighs  and  serves,  and  mute  before 
The  house  of  Love,  hears  through  the  echoing  door 

His  hours  elect  in  choral  consonancy. 

But  lo  !  what  wedded  souls  now  hand  in  hand 
Together  tread  at  last  the  immortal  strand 

With  eyes    where    burning    memory    lights   love 

home  ? 

Lo  !  how  the  little  outcast  hour  has  turned 
And  leaped  to  them  and  in  their  faces  yearned  :  — 

"  I  am  your  child  :  O  parents,  ye  have  come  !  " 


SONNETS  LVI.,  LVII., 

TRUE  WOMAN. 

I.    HERSELF. 

To  be  a  sweetness  more  desired  than  Spring  ; 

A  bodily  beauty  more  acceptable 

Than  the  wild  rose-tree's  arch  that  crowns  the  fell 
To  be  an  essence  more  environing 
Than  wine's  drained  juice  ;  a  music  ravishing 

More  than  the  passionate  pulse  of  Philomel  ;  — 

To  be  all  this  'neath  one  soft  bosom's  swell 
That  is  the  flower  of  life  :  —  how  strange  a  thing  J 


THE  HOUSE  OF  LIFE.  281 

How  strange  a  thing  to  be  what  Man  can  know 
But  as  a  sacred  secret !  Heaven's  own  screen 

Hides  her  soul's  purest  depth  and  loveliest  glow  ; 
Closely  withheld,  as  all  things  most  unseen, — 
The  wave-bowered  pearl, —  the  heart-shaped  seal 
of  green 

That  flecks  the  snowdrop  underneath  the  snow. 


II.    HER   LOVE. 

SHE  loves  him  ;  for  her  infinite  soul  is  Love, 
And  he  her  loadstar.     Passion  in  her  is 
A  glass  facing  his  fire,  where  the  bright  bliss 

Is  mirrored,  and  the  heat  returned.     Yet  move 

That  glass,  a  stranger's  amorous  flame  to  prove, 
And  it  shall  turn,  by  instant  contraries, 
Ice  to  the  moon  ;  while  her  pure  fire  to  his 

For  whom  it   burns,  clings  close    i'  the  heart's  al- 
cove. 

Lo  !  they  are  one.     With  wifely  breast  to  breast 
And  circling  arms,  she  welcomes  all  command 
Of  love, —  her  soul  to  answering  ardors  fann'd  : 
Yet  as  morn  springs  or  twilight  sinks  to  rest, 
Ah  !  who  shall  say  she  deems  not  loveliest 
The  hour  of  sisterly  sweet  hand-in-hand  ? 


HI.    HER  HEAVEN. 

IF  to  grow  old  in  Heaven  is  to  grow  young, 
(As  the  Seer  saw  and  said,)  then  blest  were  he 
With  youth  for  evermore,  whose  heaven  should  be 

True  Woman,  she  whom  these  weak  notes  have  sung. 

Here  and  hereafter, —  choir-strains  of  her  tongue, — 
Sky-spaces  of  her  eyes, —  sweet  signs  that  flee 
About  her  soul's  immediate  sanctuary, — 

Were  paradise  all  uttermost  worlds  among. 


282  CHANGE  AND  FA  TE. 

The  sunrise  blooms  and  withers  on  the  hill 
Like  any  hillflower  ;  and  the  noblest  troth 
Dies  here  to  dust.      Yet  shall  Heaven's  promise 
clothe 

Even  yet  those  lovers  who  have  cherished  still 
This  test  for  love  :  —  in  every  kiss  sealed  fast 
To  feel  the  first  kiss  and  f orbode  the  last. 


SONNET    LIX. 

LOVE'S  LAST  GIFT. 

LOVE  to  his  singer  held  a  glistening  leaf, 
And  said  :  "  The  rose-tree  and  the  apple-tree 
Have  fruits  to  vaunt  or  flowers  to  lure  the  bee  ; 

And  golden  shafts  are  in  the  feathered  sheaf 

Of  the  great  harvest  marshal,  the  year's  chief, 
Victorious  Summer  ;  ay,  and  'neath  warm  sea 
Strange  secret  grasses  lurk  inviolably 

Between  the  filtering  channels  of  sunk  reef. 

All  are  my  blooms  ;  and  all  sweet  blooms  of  love 
To  thee  I  gave  while  Spring  and  Summer  sang  ; 
But  Autumn  stops  to  listen,  with  some  pang 

From  those  worse  things  the  wind  is  moaning  of. 
Only  this  laurel  dreads  no  winter  days  : 
Take   my   last  gift  ;    thy   heart   hath    sung    my 
praise. 


CHANGE  AND  FA  TE.  283 

PART  II. 

CHANGE  AND  FATE. 

SONNET   LX. 

TRANSFIGURED  LIFE. 

As  growth  of  form  or  momentary  glance 
In  a  child's  features  will  recall  to  mind 
The  father's  with  the  mother's  face  combin'd, — 

Sweet  interchange  that  memories  still  enchange  : 

And  yet,  as  childhood's  years  and  youth's  advance, 
The  gradual  moldings  leave  one  stamp  behind, 
Till  in  the  blended  likeness  now  we  find 

A  separate  man's  or  woman's  countenance  :  — 

So  in  the  Song,  the  singer's  Joy  and  Pain, 

Its  very  parents,  evermore  expand 
To  bid  the  passion's  fullgrown  birth  remain. 

By  Art's  transfiguring  essence  subtly  spann'd  ; 

And  from  that  song-cloud  shaped  as  a  man's  band 
There  comes  the  sound  as  of  abundant  rain. 


SONNET     LXI. 

THE  SONG-THROE. 

BY  thine  own  tears  thy  song  must  tears  beget, 
O  Singer  !     Magic  mirror  thou  hast  none 
Except  thy  manifest  heart  ;  and  save  thine  own 

Anguish  or  ardor,  else  no  amulet. 

Cisterned  in  Pride,  verse  is  the  feathery  jet 
Of  soulless  air-flung  fountains  ;  nay,  more  dry 
Than  the  Dead  Sea  for  throats  that  thirst  and  sigh, 

That  song  o'er  which  no  singer's  lids  grew  wet. 


284  CHANGE  AND  FA  TE. 

The  Song-god  —  He  the  Sun -god  — is  no  slave 
Of  thine  :  thy  Hunter  he,  who  for  thy  soul 
Fledges  his  shaft  :  to  no  august  control 

Of  thy  skilled  hand  his  quivered  store  he  gave  : 
But  if  thy  lips'  loud  cry  leap  to  his  smart, 
The  inspir'd  recoil  shall  pierce  thy  brother's  heart. 


SONNET  LXII. 

.THE  SOUL'S   SPHERE. 

SOME  prisoned  moon  in  steep  cloud-fastnesses, — 

Throned  queen  and  thralled  ;  some  dying  sun  whose 
pyre 

Blazed  with  momentous  memorable  fire  ;  — 
Who  hath  not  yearned  and  fed  his  heart  with  these  ? 
Who,  sleepless,  hath  not  anguished  to  appease 

Tragical  shadow's  realm  of  sound  and  sight  . 

Conjectured  in  the  lamentable  night  ? 

Lo  !  the  soul's  sphere  of  infinite  images  ! 

What  sense  shall  count  them  ?    Whether  it  forecast 
The  rose- winged  hours  that  flutter  in  the  van 
Of  Love's  unquestioning  unrevealed  span, — 

Visions  of  golden  futures  :  or  that  -last 

Wild  pageant  of  the  accumulated  past 

That  clangs  and  flashes  for  a  drowning  man. 


SONNET  Lxm. 
ESTCLUSIYENESS. 

THE  changing  guests,  each  in  a  different  mood, 
Sit  at  the  roadside  table  and  arise  : 
And  every  life  ainong  them  in  likewise 


CHANGE  AND  FA  TE.  285 

Is  a  soul's  board  set  daily  with  new  food. 

What  man  has  bent  o'er  his  son's  sleep,  to  brood 
How  that  face  shall  watch  his  when  cold  it  lies  ? — 
Or  thought,  as  his  own  mother  kissed  his  eyes, 

Of  what  her  kiss  was  when  his  father  wooed  ? 

May  not  this  ancient  room  thon  sit'st  in  dwell 
In  separate  living  souls  for  joy  or  pain  ? 
Nay,  all  its  corners  may  be  painted  plain 

Where  Heaven  shows  pictures  of  some  life  spent  well ; 
And  may  be  stamped,  a  memory  all  in  vain, 

Upon  the  sight  of  lidless  eyes  in  Hell. 


SONNET   LXIV. 

ARDOR  AND  MEMORY. 

THE  cuckoo-throb,  the  heartbeat  of  the  Spring  ; 
The  rosebud's  blush  that  leaves  it  as  it  grows 
Into  the  full-eyed  fair  unblushing  rose  ; 

The  summer  clouds  that  visit  every  wing 

With  fires  of  sunrise  and  of  sunsetting  ; 

The  furtive  flickering  streams  to  light  re-born 
'Mid  airs  new-fledged  and  valorous  lusts  of  morn, 

While  all  the  daughters  of  the  daybreak  sing  :  — 

These  ardor  loves,  and  memory  :  and  when  flown 
All  joys,  and  through  dark  forest:boughs  in  flight 
The  wind  swoops  onward  brandishing  the  light, 
Even  yet  the  rose-tree's  verdure  left  alone 
Will  flush  all  ruddy  though  the  rose  be  gone  ; 
With  ditties  and  with  dirges  infinite. 


286  CHANGE  AND  FA  TE. 

SONNET   LXT. 

KNOWN  IN  VAIN. 

As  two  whose  love,  first  foolish,  widening  scope, 
Knows  suddenly,  to  music  high  and  soft, 
The  Holy  of  holies  ;  who  because  they  scoff'd 

Are  now  amazed  with  shame,  nor  dare  lo  cope 

With  the  whole  truth  aloud,  lest  heaven  should  ope  ; 
Yet,  at  their  meetings,  laugh  not  as  they  laugh'd 
In  speech  ;  nor  speak,  at  length  ;  but  sitting  oft 

Together,  within  hopeless  sight  of  hope 

For  hours  are  silent :  —  So  it  happeneth 

When  Work  and  Will  awake  too  late,  to  gaze 

After  their  life  sailed  by,  and  hold  their  breath. 
Ah  !  who   shall  dare  to  search  through  what  sad 

maze 
Thenceforth  their  incomrrunicable  ways 

Follow  the  desultory  feet  of  Death  ? 


SONNET  LXVI. 

THE  HEART  OF  THE  NIGHT. 

FROM  child  to  youth  ;  from  youth  to  arduous  man  ; 

From  lethargy  to  fever  of  the  heart  ; 

From  faithful  life  to  dream-dowered  days  apart ; 
From  trust  to  doubt  ;  from  doubt  to  brink  of  ban  ;  — 
Thus  much  of  change  in  one  swift  cycle  ran 

Till  now.     Alas,  the  soul  !  —  how  soon  must  she 

Acce*pt  her  primal  immortality, — 
The  flesh  resume  its  dust  whence  it  began  ? 

O  Lord  of  work  and  peace  !     O  Lord  of  life  ! 
O  Lord,  the  awful  Lord  of  will  !  though  late, 
Even  yet  renew  this  soul  with  duteous  breath  : 

That  when  the  peace  is  garnered  in  from  strife, 
The  work  retrieved,  the  will  regenerate, 
This  soul  may  see  thy  face,  O  Lord  of  death  ! 


CHANGE  AND  FA  T£.  287 

SONNET  LXTII. 

THE  LANDMARK. 

WAS  that  the  landmark  ?  What, —  the  foolish  well 
Whose  wave,  low  down,  I  did  not  stoop  to  drink, 
But  sat  and  flung  the  pebbles  from  its  brink 

In  sport  to  send  its  imaged  skies  pell-mell, 

(And  mine  own  image,  had  I  noted  well  !)  — 

Was  that  my  point  of  turning  ?  — I  had  thought 
The  stations  of  my  course  should  rise  unsought, 

As  altar-stone  or  ensigned  citadeL 

But  lo  !  the  path  is  missed,  I  must  go  back, 

And  thirst  to  drink  when  next  I  reach  the  spring 

Which  once  I  stained,  which  since  may  have  grown 

black. 

Yet  though  no  -light  be  left  nor  bird  now  sing 
As  here  I  turn,  I'll  thank  God,  hastening, 

That  the  same  goal  is  still  on  the  same  track. 


SONXET    LXV11I. 

A  DARK  DAY. 

THE  gloom  that  breathes  upon  me  with  these  airs 
Is  like  the  drops  which  strike  the  traveler's  brow 
Who  knows  not,  darkling,  if  they  bring  him  now 

Fresh  storm,  or  be  old  rain  the  covert  bears. 

Ah  !  bodes  this  hour  some  harvest  of  new  tares, 
Or  hath  but  memory  of  the  day  whose  plow 
Sowed  hunger  once, —  the  night  at  length  when  thou, 

O  prayer  found  vain,  didst  fall  from  out  my  prayers  ? 

How  prickly  were  the  growths  which  yet  how  smooth, 
Along  the  hedgerows  of  this  journey  shed, 

Lie  by  Time's  grace  till  night  and  sleep  may  soothe  ! 
Even  as  the  thistledown  from  pathsides  dead 

Gleaned  by  a  girl  in  autumns  of  her  youth, 

Which  one  new  year  makes  soft  her  marriage-bed. 


288  CHANGE  AND  FA  TE. 

SONNET  LXIX. 

AUTUMN  IDLENESS. 

THIS  sunlight  shames  November  where  he  grieves 
In  dead  red  leaves,  and  will  not  let  him  shun 
The  day,  though  bough  with  bough  be  over-run. 

But  with  a  blessing  every  glade  receives 

High  salutation  ;  while  from  hillock-eaves 

The  deer  gaze  calling,  dappled  white  and  dun, 
As  if,  being  foresters  of  old,  the  sun 

Had  marked  them  with  the  shade  of  forest-leaves. 

Here  dawn  to-day  unveiled  her  magic  glass  ; 

Here  noon  now  gives  the  thirst  and  takes  the  dew  ; 
Till  eve  bring  rest  when  other  good  things  pass. 

And  here  the  lost  hours  the  lost  hours  renew 
While  I  still  lead  my  shadow  o'er  the  grass, 

Nor  know,  for  longing,  that  which  I  should  do. 


SONNET  LXX. 

THE  HILL  SUMMIT. 

THIS  feast-day  of  the  sun,  his  altar  there 

In  the  broad  west  has  blazed  for  vesper-song  j 
And  I  have  loitered  in  the  vale  too  long 

And  gaze  now  a  belated  worshiper. 

Yet  may  I  not  forget  that  I  was  'ware, 
So  journeying,  of  his  face  at  intervals 
Transfigured  where  the  fringed  horizon  falls, — 

A  fiery  bush  with  coruscating  hair. 

And  now  that  I  have  climbed  and  won  this  height, 
I  must  tread  downward  through  the  sloping  shade 

And  travel  the  bewildered  tracks  till  night. 
Yet  for  this  hour  I  still  may  here  be  stayed 
And  see  the  gold  air  and  the  silver  fade 

And  the  last  bird  fly  into  the  last  light. 


CHANGE  AND  FA  TE.  289 

SONNETS   LXXI.,    LXXTI.,    LXXin. 

THE  CHOICE. 


EAT  thou  and  drink  ;  to-morrow  thou  shalt  die. 

Surely  the  earth,  that's  wise  being  very  old, 

Needs  not  our  help.     Then  loose  me,  love,  and  hold 
Thy  sultry  hair  up  from  my  face  ;  that  I 
May  pour  for  thee  this  golden  wine,  brim-high, 

Till  round  the  glass  thy  fingers  glow  like  gold. 

We'll  drown  all  hours  :  thy  song,  while  hours  are 

toll'd, 
Shall  leap,  as  fountains  veil  the  changing  sky. 

Now  kiss,  and  think  that  there  are  really  those, 
My  own  high-bosomed  beauty,  who  increas-3 

Vain  gold,  vain  lore,  and  yet  might  choose  our 


way 


Through  many  years  they  toil  ;  then  on  a  day 
They  die  not, —  for  their  life  was  death, —  but  cease  ; 
And  round  their  narrow  lips  the  mold  falls  close. 

ii. 

WATCH  thou  and  fear  ;  to-morrow  thou  shalt  die. 

Or  art  thou  sure  thou  shalt  have  time  for  death  ? 

Is  not  the  day  which  God's  word  promiseth 
To  come  man  knows  not  when  ?     In  yonder  sky, 
Now  while  we  speak,  the  sun  speeds  forth  :  can  I 

Or  thou  assure  him  of  his  goal  ?     God's  breath 

Even  at  this  moment  haply  quicken eth 
The  air  to  a  flame  ;  till  spirits,  always  nigh 
Though  screened  and  hid,  shall  walk  the  daylight  here. 

And  dost  thou  prate  of  all  that  man  shall  do  ? 
Canst  thou,  who  hast  but  plagues,  presume  to  be 
Glad  in  his  gladness  that  comes  after  thee  ? 

Will  his  strength  slay  thy  worm  in  Hell  ?    Go  to  : 
Cover  thy  countenance,  and  watch,  and  fear. 


290  CHANGE  AND  "FA  TE. 

III. 

THINK  thou  and  act  j  to-morrow  thou  shalt  die. 
Outstretched  in  the  sun's  warmth  upon  the  shore, 
Thou  say'st :  "  Man's  measured  path  is  all  gone  o'er  : 

Up'  all  his  years,  steeply,  with  strain  and  sigh, 

Man  clomb  until  he  touched  the  truth  ;  and  I, 
Even  I,  am  he  whom  it  was  destined  for." 
How  should  this  be  ?    Art  thou  then  so  much  more 

Than    they   who   sowed,  that    thou    shouldst    reap 
thereby  ? 

Nay,  come  up  hither.     From  this  wave-washed  mound 
Unto  the  furthest  flood-brim  look  with  me  ; 

Then  reach  on  with  thy  thought  till  it  be  drown'd. 
Miles  and  miles  distant  though  the  last  line  be, 

And  though  thy  soul  sail  leagues  and  leagues  beyond, — 
Still,  leagues  beyond  those  leagues,  there  is  more 
sea. 


SONNETS  LXXIV.,  LXXV.,  LXXVI. 

OLD  AND  NEW  ART. 

I.     ST.  LUKE  THE  PAINTER 

GIVE  honor  unto  Luke  Evangelist ; 
For  he  it  was  (the  aged  legends  say) 
Who  first  taught  Art  to  fold  her  hands  and  pray. 

Scarcely  at  once  she  dared  to  rend  the  mist 

Of  devious  symbols  :  but  soon  having  wist 
How  sky-breadth  and  field-silence  and  this  day 
Are  symbols  also  in  some  deeper  way, 

She  looked  through  these  to  God  and  was  God's  priest. 

And  if,  past  noon,  her  toil  began  to  irk, 

And  she  sought  talismans,  and  turned  in  vain 
To  soulless  self-reflections  of  man's  skill, — 
Yet  now,  in  this  the  twilight,  she  might  still 
Kneel  in  the  latter  grass  to  pray  again, 
Ere  the  night  cometh  and  she  may  not  work. 


CHANGE  AND  FA  TE.  291 

II.     NOT  AS  THESE. 

"  I  am  not  as  these  are,"  the  poet  saith 

In  youth's  pride,  and  the  painter,  among  men 
At  bay,  whei'e  never  pencil  comes  nor  pen, 

And  shut  about  with  his  own  frozen  breath. 

To  others,  for  whom  only  rhyme  wins  faith 
As  poets, —  only  paint  as  painters, —  then 
He  turns  in  the  cold  silence  ;  and  again 

Shrinking,  "  I  am  not  as  these  are,"  he  saith. 


And  say  that  this  is  so,  what  follows  it  ? 

For  were  thine  eyes  set  backwards  in  thine  head, 

Such  words  were  well ;  but  they  see  on,  and  far. 
Unto  the  lights  of  the  great  past,  new-lit 

Fair  for  the  Future's  track,  look  thoii  instead, — 
Say  thou  instead,  "  I  am  not  as  these  are." 


III.     THE  HUSBANDMEN. 

THOUGH  God,  as  one  that  is  an  householder, 
Called  these  to  labor  in  his  vineyard  first, 
Before  the  husk  of  darkness  was  well  burst 
Bidding  them  grope  their  way  out  and  bestir, 
(Who,  questioned  of  their  wages,  answered,  "  Sir, 
Unto  each  man  a  penny  :  ")  though  the  worst 
Burthen  of  heat  was  theirs  and  the  dry  thirst  : 
Though  God  hath  since  found  none  such  as  these  were 
To  do  their  work  like  them  :  —  Because  of  this 
Stand  not  ye  idle  in  the  market-place. 

Which  of  ye  knoweth  he  is  not  that  last 
Who  may  be  first  by  faith  and  will  ?  —  yea,  his 
The  hand  which  after  the  appointed  days 

And  hours  shall  give  a  Future  to  their  Past  ? 


292  CHANGE  AND  FA  TE. 

SONNET   LXXYH. 

SOUL'S   BEAUTY. 

UNDER  the  arch  of  Life,  where  love  and  death, 
Terror  and  mystery,  guard  her  shrine,  I  saw 
Beauty  enthroned  ;  and  though  her  gaze  struck  awe, 

I  drew  it  in  as  simply  as  my  breath. 

Hers  are  the  eyes  which,  over  and  beneath, 

The  sky  and  sea  bend  on  thee, —  which  can  draw, 
By  sea  or  sky  or  woman,  to  one  law, 

The  allotted  bondman  of  her  palm  and  wreath. 

This  is  that  Lady  Beauty,  in  whose  praise 

Thy  voice  and  hand  shake  still, —  long  known  to  thee 
By  flying  hair  and  fluttering  hem, —  the  beat 
Following  her  daily  of  thy  heart  and  feet, 
How  passionately  and  irretrievably, 
In  what  fond  flight,  how  many  ways  and  days  ! 


SONNET  LXXVIII. 

BODY'S    BEAUTY. 

OF  Adam's  first  wife,  Lilith,  it  is  told 

(The  witch  he  loved  before  the  gift  of  Eve,  ) 
That,  ere  the  snake's,  her  sweet  tongue  could  deceive, 

And  her  enchanted  hair  was  the  first  gold. 

And  still  she  sits,  young  while  the  earth  is  old, 
And,  subtly  of  herself  contemplative, 
Draws  men  to  watch  the  bright  web  she  can  weave, 

Till  heart  and  body  and  life  are  in  its  hold. 

The  rose  and  poppy  are  her  flowers  ;  for  where 
L«  he  not  found,  O  Lilith,  whom  shed  scent 

And  soft-shed  kisses  and  soft  sleep  shall  snare  ? 
Lo  !  as  that  youth's  eyes  burned  at  thine,  so  went 
Thy  spell  through  him,  and  left  his  straight  neck 
bent 

And  round  his  heart  one  strangling  golden  hair. 


CHANGE  AND  FA  TE.  293 

% 

SONNET    LXXIX. 

THE  MONOCHORD. 

Is  it  this  sky's  vast  vault  or  ocean's  sound 
That  Life's  self  and  draws  my  life  from  me, 
And  by  instinct  ineffable  decree 

Holds  my  breath  quailing  on  the  bitter  bound  ? 

Xay,  is  it  Life  or  Death,  thus  thunder-crown'd, 
That  'mid  the  tide  of  all  emergency 
Now  notes  my  separate  wave,  and  to  what  sea 

Its  difficult  eddies  labor  in  the  ground  ? 

Oh  !  what  is  this  that  knows  the  road  I  came, 
The  flame  turned  cloud,  returned  to  flame, 

The  listed  shifted  steeps  and  all  the  way  ?  — 
That  draws  round  me  at  last  this  wind-warm  space, 
And  in  regenerate  rapture  turns  my  face 

Upon  the  devious  coverts  of  dismay  ? 


SONNET     LXXX. 

FROM  DAWN  TO  NOON. 

As  the  child  knows  not  if  his  mother's  face 
Be  fair  ;  nor  of  his  elders  yet  can  deem 
What  each  most  is  ;  but  as  of  hill  or  stream 

At  dawn,  all  glimmering  life  surrounds  his  place  : 

Who  yet,  tow'rd  noon  of  his  half -weary  race, 
Pausing  awhile  beneath  the  high  sun-beam 
And  gazing  steadily  back, —  as  through  a  dream, 

In  things  long  past  new  features  now   can  trace  :  - 

Even  so  the  thought  that  is  at  length  fullgrown 
Turns  back  to  note  the  sun-smit  paths,  all  gray 

And  marvelous  once,  where  first  it  walked  alone  ; 
And  haply  doubts,  amid  the  unblenching  day, 
Which  most  or  least  impelled  its  onward  way, — 

Those  unknown  things  or  these  things  overknown. 


294  CHANGE  AND  FATE. 

SONNET    LXXXI. 

MEMORIAL  THRESHOLDS. 

WHAT  place  so  strange, —  though  unrevealed  snow 

With  unimaginable  fires  arise 

At  the  earth's  end, —  what  passion  of  surprise 
Like  frost-bound  fire-girt  scenes  of  long  ago  ? 
Lo  !  this  is  none  but  I  this  hour  ;  and  lo  ! 

This  is  the  very  place  which  to  mine  eyes 

Those  mortal  hours  in  vain  immortalize, 
'Mid  hurrying  crowds,  with  what  alone  I  know. 

City,  of  thine  a  single  simple  door, 

By  some  new  Power  reduplicate,  must  be 
Even  yet  my  life-porch  in  eternity, 
Even  with  one  presence  filled,  as  once  of  yore  : 
Or  mocking  winds  whirl  round  a  chaff -strown  floor 
Thee  and  thy  years  and  these  my  words  and  me. 


SONNET  LXXXII. 

HOARDED   JOY. 

I  SAID  :  "  Nay,  pluck  not, —  let  the  first  fruit  be  : 
Even  as  thou  sayest,  it  is  sweet  and  red, 
But  let  it  ripen  still.     The  tree's  bent  head 

Sees  in  the  stream  its  own  fecundity 

And  bides  the  day  of  fullness.  Shall  not  we 
At  the  sun's  hour  that  day  possess  the  shade, 
And  claim  our  fruit  before  its  ripeness  fade, 

And  eat  it  from  the  branch  and  praise  the  tree  ?  " 

I  say  :  "  Alas  !  our  fruit  hath  wooed  the  sun 

Too  long, —  'tis  fallen  and  floats  adown  the  stream. 

Lo,  the  last  clusters  !     Pluck  them  every  one, 
And  let  us  sup  with  summer  ;  ere  the  gleam 

Of  autumn  set  the  year's  pent  sorrow  free, 

And  the  woods  wail  like  echoes  from  the  sea." 


CHANGE  AND  FA  TE.  295 

SONNET  LXXXIII. 

BARREN  SPRING. 

ONCE  more  the  changed  year's  turning  wheel  returns  : 
And  as  a  girl  sails  balanced  in  the  wind, 
And  now  before  and  now  again  behind 

Stoops  as   it   swoops,  with   check   that   laughs    and 
burns, — 

So  Spring  comes  merry  towards  me  here,  but  earns 
No  answering  smile  from  me,  whose  life  is  twin'd 
With  the  dead  boughs  that  winter  still  must  bind, 

And  whom  to-day  the  Spring  no  more  concerns. 

Behold,  this  crocus  is  a  withering  flame  ; 

This  snowdrop,  snow  ;  this  apple-blossom's  part 
To  breed  the  fruit  that  breeds  the  serpent's  art. 

Nay,  for  these  Spring-flowers,  turn  thy  face  from  them, 

Nor  stay  till  on  the  year's  last  lily-stem 

The  white  cup  shrivels  round  the  golden  heart. 


SONNET  LXXXTV. 

FAREWELL  TO  THE  GLEN. 

SWEET  stream-fed  glen,  why  say  "  farewell "  to  thee 
Who  far'st  so  well  and  find'st  for  ever  smooth 
The  brow  of  Time  where  man  may  read  no  ruth  ? 

Nay,  do  thou  rather  say  "  farewell  "  to  me, 

Who  now  fare  forth  in  bitterer  fantasy 

Than  erst  was  mine  where  other  shade  might  soothe 
By  other  streams,  what  while  in  fragrant  youth 

The  bliss  of  being  sad  made  melancholy. 


296  CHANGE  AND  FA  TE. 

And  yet,  farewell  !     For  better  shalt  thou  fare 
When  children  bathe  sweet  faces  in  thy  flow 

And  happy  lovers  blend  sweet  shadows  there 
In  hours  to  come,  than  when  an  hour  ago 

Thine  echoes  had  but  one  man's  sighs  to  bear 

And  thy  trees  whispered  what  he  feared  to  know. 


SONNET  LXXXV. 

VAIN  VIRTUES. 

WHAT  is  the  sorriest  thing  that  enters  Hell  ? 
None  of  the  sins, —  but  this  and  that  fair  deed 
Which  a  soul's  sin  at  length  could  supersede. 

These  yet  are  virgins,  whom  death's  timely  knell 

Might  once  have  sainted  ;  whom  the  fields  compel 
Together  now,  in  snake-bound  shuddering  sheaves 
Of  anguish,  while  the  pit's  pollution  leaves 

Their  refuse  maidenhood  abominable. 

Night  sucks  them  down,  the  tribute  of  the  pit, 
Whose  names,  half  entered  in  the  book  of  Life, 

Were  God's  desire  at  noon.     And  as  their  hair 
And  eyes  sink  last,  the  Torturer  deigns  no  whit 
To  gaze,  but,  yearning,  waits  his  destined  wife, 
The  Sin  still  blithe  on  earth  that  sent  them  there. 


SONNET   LXXXVJL 

LOST  DAYS. 


THE  lost  days  of  my  life  until  to-day, 

What  were  they,  could  I  see  them  on  the  street 
Lie  as  they  fell  ?  Would  they  be  ears  of  wheat 


CHANGE  AND  FA  TE.  297 

Sown  once  for  food  but  trodden  into  clay  ? 
Or  golden  coins  squandered  and  still  to  pay  ? 

Or  drops  of  blood  dabbling  the  guilty  feet  ? 

Or  such  spilt  water  of  in  dreams  must  cheat 
The  undying  throats  of  Hell,  athirst  alway  ? 

I  do  not  see  them  here  ;  but  after  death 
God  knows  I  know  the  faces  I  shall  see, 

Each  one  a  murdered  self,  with  low  last  breath. 
"  I  am  thyself, —  what  hast  thou  done  to  me  ?  " 

"And  I  —  and  I — thyself,"  (lo  !  each  one  saith,) 
"  And  thou  thyself  to  all  eternity  !  " 


DEATH'S  SONGSTERS. 

N  first  that  horse,  within  whose  populous  womb 
The  birth  was  death,  o'ershadowed  Troy  with  fate, 
Her  elders,  dubious  of  its  Grecian  freight, 

Brought  Helen  there  to  sing  the  songs  of  home  ; 

She  whispered,  "  Friends,  I  am  alone  ;  come,  come  !  " 
Then,  crouched  within,  Ulysses  waxed  afraid, 
And  on  his  comrades'  quivering  mouths  he  laid 

His  hands,  and  held  them  till  the  voice  was  dumb. 

The  same  was  he  who,  lashed  to  his  own  mast, 

There  where  the  sea-flowers  screen  the  charnel-caves, 

Beside  the  sirens'  singing  island  pass'd 

Till  sweetness  failed  along  the  inveterate,  waves.  .  . . 

Say,  soul, — are  songs  of  Death  no  heaven  to  thee, 

Nor  shames  her  lip  the  cheek  of  victory  ? 


298  CHANGE  AND  FA  TE. 

SOKNET   LXXXVIII. 

HERO'S  LAMP.* 

THAT  lamp  thou  fill'st  in  Eros'  name  to-night, 
O  Hero,  shall  the  Sestian  augurs  take 
To-morrow,  and  for  drowned  Leander's  sake 

To  Anteros  its  fireless  lip  shall  plight. 

Ay,  waft  the  unspoken  vow  :  yet  dawn's  first  light 
On  ebbing  storm  and  life  twice  ebb'd  must  break 
While  'neath  no  sunrise,  by  the  Avernian  Lake, 

Lo  where  Love  walks,  Death's  pallid  neophyte. 

That  lamp  within  Anteros'  shadowy  shrine 
Shall  stand  unlit  (for  so  the  gods  decree) 
Till  some  one  man  the  happy  issue  see 
Of  a  life's  love,  and  bid  its  flame  to  shine  : 
Which  still  may  rest  unfir'd  ;  for,  theirs  or  thine, 
O  brother,  what  brought  love  to  them  or  thee  ? 


SOCKET   LXXXIX. 

THE  TREES  OF  THE  GARDEN. 

YE  who  have  passed  Death's  haggard  hills  ;  and  ye 
Whom  trees  that  knew  your  sires  shall  cease  to 

know 
And  still  stand  silent :  —  is  it  all  a  show, — 

A  wisp  that  laughs  upon  the  wall  ?  —  decree 

Of  some  inexorable  supremacy 

Which  ever,  as  man  strains  his  blind  surmise 
From  depth  to  ominous  depth,  looks  past  his  eyes, 

Sphinx-faced  with  unbashed  augury  ? 

*  After  the  deaths  of  Leander  and  of  Hero,  Hie  signal- 
lamp  was  dedicated  to  Anteros,  with  (lie  edict  that  no  man 
should  light  it  unless  his  love  Lad  proved  fortunate. 


CHANGE  AND  FA  TE.  299 

Nay,  rather  question  the  Earth's  self.     Invoke 
The  storm-felled  forest-trees  moss-grown  to-day 
Whose  roots  are  hillocks  where  the  children  play  ; 

Or  ask  the  silver  sapling  'neath  what  yoke 

Those  stars,  his  spray-crown's  clustering  gems,  shall 

wage 
Their  journey  still  when  his  boughs  shrink  with  age. 


SONNET  xc. 
"RETRO  ME,  SATHANA!" 

GET  thee  behind  me.     Even  as,  heavy-curled, 
Stooping  against  the  wind,  a  charioteer 
Is  snatched  from  out  his  chariot  by  the  hair, 
So  shall  Time  be  ;  and  as  the  void  car,  hurled 
Abroad  by  reinless  steeds,  even  so  the  world  : 
Yea,  even  as  chariot-dust  upon  the  air, 
It  shall  be  sought  and  not  found  anywhere. 
Get  thee  behind  me,  Satan.     Oft  unfurled, 
Thy  perilous  wings  can  beat  and  break  like  lath 
Much  mightiness  of  men  to  win  thee  praise. 
Leave  these  weak  feet  to  tread  in  narrow  ways. 
Thou  still,  upon  the  broad  vine-sheltered  path, 
Mayst  wait  the  turning  of  the  phials  of  wrath 
For  certain  years,  for  certain  months  and  days. 


SONNET   XCI. 

LOST  ON  BOTH  SIDES. 

As  when  two  men  have  loved  a  woman  well, 

Each   hating   each,   through   Love's   and    Death's 

deceit ; 
Since  not  for  either  this  stark  marriage-sheet 


300  CHANGE  AND  FA  TE. 

And  the  long  pauses  of  this  wedding-bell ; 
Yet  o'er  her  grave  the  night  and  day  dispel 

At  last  their  feud  forlorn,  with  cold  and  heat ; 

Nor  other  than  dear  friends  to  death  may  fleet 
The  two  lives  left  that  most  of  her  can  tell  :  — 


So  separate  hopes,  which  in  a  soul  had  wooed 

The  one  same  Peace,  strove  with  each  other  long, 

And  Peace  before  their  faces  perished  since  : 
So  through  that  soul,  in  restless  brotherhood, 
They  roam  together  now,  and  wind  among 
It  by-streets,  knocking  at  the  dusty  inns. 


SONKETS    XCII.,    XCIII. 

THE  SUN'S  SHAME. 


BEHOLDING  youth  and  hope  in  mockery  caught 
From  life  ;  and  mocking  pulses  that  remain 
When  the  soul's  death  of  bodily  death  is  fain  ; 

Honor  unknown,  and  honor  known  unsought  ; 

And  penury's  sedulous  self -torturing  thought 
On  gold,  whose  master  therewith  buys  his  bane  ; 
And  longed-for  woman  longing  all  in  vain 

For  lonely  man  with  love's  desire  distraught ; 

And  wealth,  and  strength,  and  power,  and  pleasant- 
ness, 

Given  unto  bodies  of  whose  souls  men  say, 
None  poor  and  weak,  slavish  and  foul,  as  they  :  — 

Beholding  these  things,  I  behold  no  less 

The  blushing  morn  and  blushing  eve  confess 
The  shame  that  loads  the  intolerable  day. 


CHANGE  AND  FA  T£t  301 

II. 

As  some  true  chief  of  men,  bowed  down  with  stress 
Of  life's  disastrous  eld,  on  blossoming  youth 
May  gaze,  and  murmur  with  self-pity  and  ruth, — 

"  Might  I  thy  fruitless  treasure  but  possess, 

Such    blessing    of    mine    all    coming   years    should 

bless  ;  "  — 

Then  sends  one  sigh  forth  to  the  unknown  goal, 
And  bitterly  feels  breathe  against  his  soul 

The  hour  swift-winged  of  nearer  nothingness  :  — 

Even  so  the  World's  gray  Soul  to  the  green  World 
Perchance  one  hour    must    cry  :    "  Woe's  me,  for 

whom 
Inveteracy  of  ill  portends  the  doom, — 

Whose  heart's  old  fire  in  shadow  of  shame  is  furl'd  : 
While  thou  even  as  of  yore  art  journeying, 
All  soulless  now,  yet  merry  with  the  Spring  !  " 


MICHELANGELO'S  KISS. 

GREAT  Michelangelo,  with  age  grown  bleak 
And  uttermost  labors,  having  once  o'ersaid 
All  grievous  memories  on  his  long  life  shed, 

This  worst  regret  to  one  true  heart  could  speak  :  — 

That  when,  with  sorrowing  love  and  reverence  meek, 
He  stooped  o'er  sweet  Colon na's  dying  bed, 
His  Muse  and  dominant  Lady,  spirit-wed, — 

Her  hand  he  kissed,  but  not  her  brow  or  cheek. 

O  Buonarruoti, —  good  at  Art's  fire-wheels 
To  urge  her  chariot !  —  even  thus  the  Soul, 
Touching  at  length  some  sorely-chastened  goal, 

Earns  oftenest  but  a  little  :  her  appeals 

Were  deep  and  mute, —  lowly  her  claim.     Let  be  : 
What  holds  for  her  Death's  garner  ?  And  for  thee  ? 


302  CHANGE  AND  FA  TE. 

SONNET   XCV. 

THE  VASE  OF  LIFE. 

AROUND  the  vase  of  Life  at  your  slow  pace 

He  Las  not  crept,  but  turned  it  with  his  hands, 

And  all  its  sides  already  understands. 
There,  girt,  one  breathes  alert  for  some  great  race  ; 
Whose  road  runs  far  by  sands  and  fruitful  space  ; 

Who   laughs,  yet    through    the    jolly  throng  has 
pass'd  ; 

Who  weeps,  nor  stays  for  weeping  ;  who  at  last, 
A  youth,  stands  somewhere  crowned,  with  silent  face. 

And  he  has  filled  this  vase  with  wine  for  blood, 
With  blood  for  tears,  with  spice  for  burning  vow, 
With  watered  flowers  for  buried  love  most  fit  ; 
And  would  have  cast  it  shattered  to  the  flood, 

Yet  in  Fate's  name  has  kept  it  whole  ;  which  now 
Stands  empty  till  his  ashes  fall  in  it. 


SONNET  XCVI. 

LIFE  THE  BELOVED. 

As  thy  friend's  face,  with  shadow  of  soul  o'erspread, 
Somewhile  unto  thy  sight  perchance  hath  been 
Ghastly  and  strange,  yet  never  so  is  seen 

In  thought,  but  to  all  fortunate  favor  wed  ; 

As  thy  love's  death-bound  features  never  dead 
To  memory's  glass  return,  but  contravene 
Frail  fugitive  days,  and  always  keep,  I  ween, 

Than  all  new  life  a  livelier  lovelihead  :  — 

So  Life  herself,  thy  spirit's  friend  and  love, 
Even  still  as  Spring's  authentic  harbinger 

Glows  with  fresh  hours  for  hope  to  glorify  ; 
Though  pale  she  lay  when  in  the  winter  grove 
Her  funeral  flowers  were  snow-flakes  shed  on  her 
And  the  red  wings  of  frost-fire  rent  the  sky. 


CHANGE  AND  FA  TE.  303 

SONNET  XCVTI. 

A  SUPERSCRIPTION. 

LOOK  in  my  face  ;  ray  name  is  Might-have-been  ; 

I  am  also  called  No-more,  Too-late,  Farewell ; 

Unto  thine  ear  I  hold  the  dead-sea  shell 
Cast  up  thy  Life's  foam-fretted  feet  between  ; 
Unto  thine  eyes  the  glass  where  that  is  seen 

Which  had  Life's  form  and  Love's,  but  by  my  spell 

Is  now  a  shaken  shadow  intolerable, 
Of  ultimate  things  (muttered  the  frail  screen. 

Mark  me,  how  still  I  am  !  But  should  there  dart 
One  moment  through  thy  soul  the  soft  surprise 
Of  that  winged  Peace  which  lulls  the  breath  of 

sighs,— 

Then  shalt  thou  see  me  smile,  and  turn  apart 
Thy  visage  to  mine  ambush  at  thy  heart 
Sleepless  with  cold  commemorative  eyes. 


SONNET  xcvin. 
HE  AND  I. 

WHENCE  came  his  feet  into  my  field,  and  why  ? 

How  is  it  that  he  sees  it  all  so  drear  ? 

How  do  I  see  his  seeing,  and  how  hear 
The  name  his  bitter  silence  knows  it  by  ? 
This  was  the  little  fold  of  separate  sky 

Whose  pasturing  clouds  in  the  soul's  atmosphere 

Drew  living  light  from  one  continual  year  : 
How  should  he  find  it  lifeless  ?    He,  or  I  ? 

Lo  !  this  new  Self  now  wanders  round  my  field, 
With  plaints  for  every  flower,  and  for  each  tree 
A  moan,  the  sighing  wind's  auxiliary  : 
And  o'er  sweet  waters  of  my  life,  that  yield 
Unto  his  lips  no  draught  but  tears  unseal'd, 
Even  in  my  place  he  weeps.     Even  I,  not  he. 


804  CHANGE  AND  FA  TE. 

SOKNET  XCIX.,  C. 

NEWBORN  DEATH. 


TO-DAY  Death  seems  to  me  an  infant  child 
Which  her  worn  mother  Life  upon  my  knee 
Has  set  to  grow  my  friend  and  play  with  me  ; 

If  haply  so  my  heart  might  be  beguil'd 

To  find  no  terrors  in  a  face  so  mild, — 
If  haply  so  my  weary  heart  might  be 
Unto  the  newborn  milky  eyes  of  thee, 

O  Death,  before  resentment  reconcil'd. 

How  long,  O  Death  ?     And  shall  thy  feet  depart 
Still  a  young  child's  with  mine,  or  wilt  thou  stand 

Fullgrown  the  helpful  daughter  of  my  heart, 
What  time  with  thee  indeed  I  reach  the  strand 

Of  the  pale  wave  which  knows  thee  what  thou  art, 
And  drink  it  in  the  hollow  of  thy  hand  ? 

n. 

AND  thou,  O  Life,  the  lady  of  all  bliss, 

With  whom,  when  our  first  heart  beat  full  and  fast, 
I  wandered  till  the  haunts  of  men  were  pass'd,   k 

And  in  fair  places  found  all  bowers  amiss 

Till  only  woods  and  waves  might  hear  our  kiss, 

While  to  the  winds  all  thought  of  Death  we  cast  :  — 
Ah,  Life  !  and  must  I  have  from  thee  at  last 

No  smile  to  greet  me  and  no  babe  but  this  ? 

Lo  !  Love,  the  child  once  ours  :  and  Song,  whose  hair 
Blew  like  a  flame  and  blossomed  like  a  wreath  ; 

And  Art,  whose  eyes  were  worlds  by  God  found  fair  ; 
These  o'er  the  book  of  Nature  mixed  their  breath 

With  neck-twined   arms,  as  oft  we  watched   them 

there  : 
And  did  these  die  that  thou  mightst  bear  me  Death  ? 


CHANGE  AND  FA  TE.  305 

SONNET   CI. 

THE  ONE  HOPE. 

WHEN  vain  desire  at  last  and  vain  regret 
Go  hand  in  hand  to  death,  and  all  is  vain, 

What  shall  assuage  the  unforgotten  pain 

And  teach  the  unforgetf ul  to  forget  ? 

Shall  Peace  be  still  a  sunk  stream  long  unmet, — 
Or  may  the  soul  at  once  in  a  green  plain 
Stoop  through  the  spray  of  some  sweet  life-foun- 
tain 

And  cull  the  dew-drenched  flowering  amulet  ? 

Ah  !  when  the  wan  soul  in  that  golden  air 
Between  the  scriptured  petals  softly  blown 
Peers  breathless  for  the  gift  of  grace  unknown, — 
Ah  1  let  none  other  alien  spell  soe'er 
But  only  the  one  Hope's  one  name  be  there, — 
Not  less  nor  more,  but  even  that  word  alone. 


LYRICS,  ETC. 


SOOTHSAY. 

LET  no  man  ask  thee  of  anything 

Not  yearborn  between  Spring  and  Spring. 

More  of  all  worlds  than  he  can  know, 

Each  day  the  single  sun  doth  show. 

A  trustier  gloss  than  thou  canst  give 

From  all  wise  scrolls  demonstrative, 

The  sea  doth  sigh  and  the  wind  sing. 

Let  no  man  awe  thee  on  any  height 
Of  earthly  kingship's  moldering  might. 
The  dust  his  heel  holds  meet  for  thy  brow 
Hath  all  of  it  been  what  both  are  now  ; 
And  thou  and  he  may  plague  together 
A  beggar's  eyes  in  some  dusty  weather 
When  none  that  is  now  knows  sound  or  sight. 

Crave  thou  no  dower  of  earthly  things 

Unworthy  Hope's  imaginings. 

To  have  brought  true  birth  of  Song  to  be 

And  to  have  won  hearts  to  Poesy, 

Or  anywhere  in  the  sun  or  rain 

To  have  loved  and  been  beloved  again, 

Is  loftiest  reach  of  Hope's  bright  wings. 

The  wild  waifs  cast  up  by  the  sea 

Are  diverse  ever  seasonably. 

Even  so  the  soul-tides  still  may  land 

A  different  drift  upon  the  sand. 

But  one  the  sea  is  evermore  : 

And  one  be  still,  'twixt  shore  and  shore, 

As  the  sea's  life,  thy  soul  in  thee. 


BOOTH  SAY.  30? 

Say,  hast  thou  pride  ?     How  then  may  fit 

Thy  mood  with  flatterers'  silk-spun  wit  ? 

Haply  the  sweet  voice  lifts  thy  crest, 

A  breeze  of  fame  made  manifest. 

Nay,  but  then  chaf 'st  at  flattery  ?    Pause  : 

Be  sure  thy  wrath  is  not  because 

It  makes  thee  feel  thou  lovest  it. 

Let  thy  soul  strive  that  still  the  same 

Be  early  friendship's  sacred  flame. 

The  affinities  have  strongest  part 

In  youth,  and  draw  men  heart  to  heart : 

As  life  wears  on  and  finds  no  rest, 

The  individual  in  each  breast 

Is  tyrannous  to  sunder  them. 

In  the  life-drama's  stern  cue-call, 

A  friend's  a  part  well-prized  by  all  : 

And  if  thou  meet  an  enemv, 

What  art  thou  that  none  such  should  be  ? 

Even  so  :  but  if  the  two  parts  run 

Into  each  other  and  grow  one, 

Then  comes  the  curtain's  cue  to  fall. 

"Whate'er  by  other's  need  is  claimed 

More  than  thine, —  to  him  unblamed 

Resign  it  :  and  if  he  should  hold 

What  more  than  he  thou  lack'st,  bread,  gold, 

Or  any  good  whereby  we  live, — 

To  thee  such  substance  let  him  give 

Freely  :  nor  he  nor  thou  be  shamed. 

Strive  that  thy  works  prove  equal  :  lest 
That  work  which  thou  hast  done  the  best 
Should  come  to  be  to  thee  at  length 
(Even  as  to  envy  seems  the  strength 
Of  others)  hateful  and  abhorr'd, — 
Thine  own  above  thyself  made  lord, — 
Of  self -rebuke  the  bitterest. 


308  SOOTHSAY. 

Unto  the  man  of  yearning  thought 
And  aspiration,  to  do  naught 
Is  in  itself  almost  an  act, — 
Being  chasm-fire  and  cataract 
Of  the  soul's  utter  depths  unseal'd. 
Yet  woe  to  thee  if  once  thou  yield 
Unto  the  act  of  doing  naught  ! 

How  callous  seems  beyond  revoke 

The  clock  with  its  last  listless  stroke  ! 

How  much  too  late  at  length  !  —  to  trace 

The  hour  on  its  forewarning  face, 

The  thing  thou  hast  not  dared  to  do  !  .... 

Behold,  this  may  be  thus  !     Ere  true 

It  prove,  arise  and  bear  thy  yoke. 

Let  lore  of  all  Theology 

Be  to  thy  soul  what  it  can  be  : 

But  know, —  that  Power  that  fashions  man 

Measured  not  out  thy  little  span 

For  thee  to  take  the  meting-rod 

In  turn,  and  so  approve  on  God 

Thy  science  of  Theometry. 

To  God  at  best,  to  Chance  at  worst, 
Give  thanks  for  good  things,  last  as  first. 
But  windstrown  blossom  is  that  good 
Whose  apple  is  not  gratitude. 
Even  if  no  prayer  uplift  thy  face, 
Let  the  sweet  right  to  render  grace 
As  thy  soul's  cherish'd  child  be  nursed. 

Didst  ever  say,  "  Lo,  I  forget  ?  " 
Such  thought  was  to  remember  yet. 
As  in  a  gravegarth,  count  to  see 
The  monuments  of  memory. 
Be  this  thy  soul's  appointed  scope  :  — 
Gaze  onward  without  claim  to  hope, 
Nor,  gazing  backward,  court  regret. 


CHIMES.  309 

CHIMES. 


Honey-flowers  to  the  honey-comb 
And  the  honey-bees  from  home. 

A  honey-comb  and  a  honey-flower, 
And  the  bee  shall  have  his  hour. 

A  honeyed  heart  for  the  honey-comb, 
And  the  humming  bee  flies  home. 

A  heavy  heart  in  the  honey-flower, 
And  the  bee  has  had  his  hour. 


n. 

A  honey-cell  's  in  the  honeysuckle, 
And  the  honey-bee  knows  it  well. 

The  honey-comb  has  a  heart  of  honey, 
And  the  humming-bee  's  so  bonny. 

A  honey-flower  's  the  honeysuckle, 
And  the  bee  's  in  the  honey-bell. 

The  honeysuckle  is  sucked  of  honey, 
And  the  bee  is  heavy  and  bonny. 


in. 

Brown  shell  first  for  the  butterfly 
And  a  bright  wing  by  and  by. 

Butterfly,  good-by  to  your  shell, 
And,  bright  wings,  speed  you  well. 

Bright  lamplight  for  the  butterfly 
And  a  burnt  wing  by  and  by. 


310  CHIMES. 


Butterfly,  alas  for  your  shell, 
And,  bright  wings,  fare  you  well. 


IV. 

Lost  love-labor  and  lullaby, 
And  lowly  let  love  lie. 

Lost  love-morrow  and  love-fellow 
And  love's  life  lying  low. 

Lovelorn  labor  and  life  laid  by 
And  lowly  let  love  lie. 

Late  love-longing  and  life-sorrow 
And  love's  life  lying  low. 

v. 

Beauty's  body  and  benison 
With  a  bosom-flower  new-blown. 

Bitter  beauty  and  blessing  bann'd 
With  a  breast  to  burn  and  brand. 

Beauty's  bower  in  the  dust  o'erblown 
With  a  bare  white  breast  of  bone. 

Barren  beauty  and  bower  of  sand 
With  a  blast  on  either  hand. 


VI. 

Buried  bars  in  the  breakwater 
And  bubble  of  the  brimming  weir. 

Body's  blood  in  the  breakwater 
And  a  buried  body's  bier. 

Buried  bones  in  the  breakwater 
And  bubble  of  the  brawling  weir. 


PARTED  PRESENCE.  311 

Bitter  tears  in  the  breakwater 
And  a  breaking  heart  to  bear. 


VII. 

Hollow  heaven  and  the  hurricane 
And  hurry  of  the  heavy  rain. 

Hurried  clouds  in  the  hollow  heaven 
And  a  heavy  rain  hard  driven. 

The  heavy  rain  it  hurries  amain 
And  heaven  and  the  hurricane. 

Hurrying  wind  o'er  the  heaven's  hollow 
And  the  heavy  rain  to  follow. 


PARTED  PRESENCE. 

LOVE,  I  speak  to  your  heart, 
Your  heart  that  is  always  here, 
Oh  draw  me  deep  to  its  sphere, 

Though  you  and  I  are  apart ; 

And  yield,  by  the  spirit's  art, 
Each  distant  gift  that  is  dear. 
O  love,  my  love,  you  are  here  ! 

Your  eyes  are  afar  to-day, 

Yet,  love,  look  now  in  mine  eyes. 

Two  hearts  sent  forth  may  despise 
All  dead  things  by  the  way. 
All  between  is  decay, 

Dead  hours  and  this  hour  that  dies, 

O  love,  look  deep  in  mine  eyes  ! 


312  A  DEA  TH  PAR  TING. 

Your  hands  to-day  are  not  here, 

Yet  lay  them,  love,  in  my  hands. 

The  hourglass  sheds  its  sands 
All  day  for  the  dead  hours'  bier  ; 
But  now,  as  two  hearts  draw  near, 

This  hour  like  a  flower  expands. 

O  love,  your  hands  in  my  hands  ! 

Your  voice  is  not  on  the  air, 

Yet,  love,  I  can  hear  your  voice  : 
It  bids  my  heart  to  rejoice 

As  knowing  your  heart  is  there, — 

A  music  sweet  to  declare 

The  truth  of  your  steadfast  choice. 
O  love,  how  sweet  is  your  voice  ! 

To-day  your  lips  are  afar, 

Yet  draw  my  lips  to  them,  love. 

Around,  beneath,  and  above, 
Is  frost  to  bind  and  to  bar  ; 
But  where  I  am  and  you  are, 

Desire  and  the  fire  thereof. 

O  kiss  me,  kiss  me,  my  love  1 

Your  heart  is  never  away, 
But  ever  with  mine,  for  ever, 
For  ever  without  endeavor, 

To-morrow,  love,  as  to-day  ; 

Two  blent  hearts  never  astray, 
Two  souls  no  power  may  sever, 
Together,  O  my  love,  for  ever ! 


A  DEATH-PARTING. 

LEAVES  and  rain  and  the  days  of  the  year, 

(  Water-willow  and  wellaway,) 
All  these  fall,  and  my  soul  gives  ear, 
And  she  is  hence  who  once  was  here. 
( With  a  wind  blown  night  and  day.) 


SPHERAL  CHANGE.  313 

Ah  !  bui;  now,  for  a  secret  sign, 

( The  willow's  ican  and  the  water  white,) 
In  the  held  breath  of  the  day's  decline 
Her  very  face  seemed  pressed  to  mine. 
( With  a  wind  bloicn  day  and  night.) 

O  love,  of  my  death  my  life  is  fain  ; 

(The  willoics  wave  on  the  water-way?) 
Your  cheek  and  mine  are  cold  in  the  rain, 
But  warm  they  '11  be  when  we  meet  again.. 

(  With  a  wind  blown  night  and  day.) 

Mists  are  heaved  and  cover  the  sky  ; 

(The  willows  wail  in  the  waning  light,) 
O  loose  your  lips,  leave  space  for  a  sigh, — 
They  seal  my  soul,  I  cannot  die. 

(  With  a  wind  blown  day  and  night.) 

Leaves  and  rain  and  the  days  of  the  year, 

( Water-icillow  and  wellaway,) 
All  still  fall,  and  I  still  give  ear, 
And  she  is  hence,  and  I  am  here. 

(  With  a  wind  blown  night  and  day.) 


SPHERAL  CHANGE. 

IN  this  new  shade  of  Death,  the  show 
Passes  me  still  of  form  and  face  ; 

Some  bent,  some  gazing  as  they  go, 
Some  swiftly,  some  at  a  dull  pace, 
Not  one  that  speaks  in  any  case. 

If  only  one  might  speak  !  —  the  one 
Who  never  waits  till  I  come  near  ; 

But  always  seated  all  alone 
As  listening  to  the  sunken  air, 
Is  gone  before  I  come  to  her. 


314  SUNSET  WINGS. 

O  dearest  !  while  we  lived  and  died 
A  living  death  in  every  day, 

Some  hours  we  still  were  side  by  side, 
When  where  I  was  you  too  might  stay 
And  rest  and  need  not  go  away. 

O  nearest,  furthest !     Can  there  be 
At  length  some  hard-earned  heart-won  home, 

Where, —  exile  changed  for  sanctuary, — 
Our  lot  may  fill  indeed  its  sum, 
And  you  may  wait  and  I  may  come  ? 


SUNSET  WINGS. 

TO-XIGHT  this  sunset  spreads  two  golden  wings 

Cleaving  the  western  sky  ; 
Winged  too  with  wind  it  is,  and  winnowings 
Of  birds  ;  as  if  the  day's  last  hour  in  rings 

Of  strenuous  flight  must  die. 

Sun-steeped  in  fire,  the  homeward  pinions  sway 

Above  the  dovecote-tops  ; 

And  clouds  of  starlings,  ere  they  rest  with  day, 
Sink,  clamorous  like  mill  waters,  at  wild  play, 

By  turns  in  every  copse  : 

Each  tree  heart-deep  the  wrangling  rout  receives, — 

Save  for  the  whirr  within, 

You  could  not  tell  the  starlings  from  the  leaves  ; 
Then   one   great   puff  of   wings,   and  the   swarm 
heaves 

Away  with  all  its  din. 

Even  thus  Hope's  hours,  in  ever-eddying  flight, 

To  many  a  refuge  tend  ; 

With  the  first  light  she  laughed,  and  the  last  light 
Glows  round  her  still  ;  who  natheless  in  the  night 

At  length  must  make  an  end. 


SONG  AND  MUSIC.  315 

And  now  the  mustering  rooks  innumerable 

Together  sail  and  soar, 

While  for  the  day's  death,  like  a  tolling  knell, 
Unto  the  heart  they  seem  to  cry,  Farewell, 

No  more,  farewell,  no  more  ! 

Is  Hope  not  plumed,  as  't  were  a  fiery  dart? 

And  oh  !  thou  dying  day, 
Even  as  thou  goest  must  she  too  depart, 
And  Sorrow  fold  such  pinions  on  the  heart 

As  will  not  fly  away  ? 


SONG  AND  MUSIC. 

O  LEAVE  your  hand  where  it  lies  cool 

Upon  the  eyes  whose  lids  are  hot  : 
Its  rosy  shade  is  bountiful 

Of  silence,  and  assuages  thought. 
O  lay  your  lips  against  your  hand 

And  let  me  feel  your  breath  through  it, 
While  through  the  sense  your  song  shall  fit 

The  soul  to  understand. 

The  music  lives  upon  my  brain 

Between  your  hands  within  mine  eyes  ; 
It  stirs  your  lifted  throat  like  pain, 

An  aching  pulse  of  melodies. 
Lean  nearer,  let  the  music  pause  : 

The  soul  may  better  understand 
Yotir  music,  shadowed  in  your  hand, 

Now  while  the  song  withdraws. 


316  ALAS,  SO  LONG. 


THREE  SHADOWS. 

I  LOOKED  and  saw  your  eyes 

la  the  shadow  of  your  hair, 
As  a  traveler  sees  the  stream 

In  the  shadow  of  the  wood  ; 
And  I  said,  "  My  faint  heart  sighs, 

Ah  me  !  to  linger  there, 
To  drink  deep  and  to  dream 

In  that  sweet  solitude." 

I  looked  and  saw  your  heart 

In  the  shadow  of  your  eyes, 
As  a  seeker  sees  the  gold 

In  the  shadow  of  the  stream  ; 
And  I  said,  "  Ah  me  !  what  art 

Should  win  the  immortal  prize, 
Whose  want  must  make  life  cold 

And  Heaven  a  hollow  dream  ?  " 

I  looked  and  saw  your  love 

In  the  shadow  of  your  heart, 
As  a  diver  sees  the  pearl 

In  the  shadow  of  the  sea  ; 
And  I  murmured,  not  above 

My  breath,  but  all  apart, — 
"  Ah  !  you  can  love,  true  girl, 

And  is  your  love  for  me  ?  " 


ALAS,  SO  LONG ! 

AH  !  dear  one,  we  were  young  so  long, 

It  seemed  that  youth  would  never  go, 
For  skies  and  trees  were  ever  in  song 

And  water  in  singing  flow 
In  the  days  we  never  again  shall  know. 

Alas,  so  long  ! 

Ah  !  then  was  it  all  Spring  weather  ? 
Nay,  but  we  were  young  and  together. 


ADIEU.  317 

Ah  !  dear  one,  I've  been  old  so  long, 

It  seems  that  age  is  loth  to  part, 
Though  days  and  years  have  never  a  song, 

And  oh  !  have  they  still  the  art 
That  warmed  the  pulses  of  heart  to  heart  ? 

Alas,  so  long  ! 

Ah  !  then  was  it  all  Spring  weather  ? 
Nay,  but  we  were  young  and  together. 

Ah  !  dear  one,  you've  been  dead  so  long, — 

How  long  until  we  meet  again, 
Where  hours  may  never  lose  their  song 

Nor  flowers  forget  the  rain 
In  glad  noonlight  that  never  shall  wane  ? 

Alas,  so  long  ! 

Ah  !  shall  it  be  then  Spring  weather, 
And  ah  !  shall  we  be  young  together  ? 


ADIEU. 

WAVIXG  whispering  trees, 
What  do  you  say  to  the  breeze 

And  what  says  the  breeze  to  you  ? 
'Mid  passing  souls  ill  at  ease, 
Moving  murmuring  trees, 

Would  ye  ever  wave  an  Adieu. 

Tossing  turbulent  seas, 
Winds  that  wrestle  with  these, 

Echo  heard  in  the  shell, — 
'Mid  fleeting  life  ill  at  ease, 
Restless  ravening  seas, — 

Would  the  echo  sigh  Farewell  ? 

Surging  sumptuous  skies, 
For  ever  a  new  surprise, 

Clouds  eternally  new, — 
Is  every  flake  that  flies, 
Widening  wandering  skies, 

For  a  sign  —  Farewell,  Adieu  ? 


318  INSOMNIA. 

Sinking  suffering  heart 

That  know'st  how  weary  thou  art, — 

Soul  so  fain  for  a  flight, — 
Ay,  spread  your  wings  to  depart, 
Sad  soul  and  sorrowing  heart, — 

Adieu,  Farewell,  Good-night. 


INSOMNIA. 

THIN  are  the  night-skirts  left  behind 
By  daybreak  hours  that  onward  creep, 
And  thin,  alas  !  the  shred  of  sleep 

That  wavers  with  the  spirit's  wind  : 

But  in  half-dreams  that  shift  and  roll 
And  still  remember  and  forget, 

My  soul  this  hour  has  drawn  your  soul 
A  little  nearer  yet. 

Our  lives,  most  dear,  are  never  near, 
Our  thoughts  are  never  far  apart, 
Though  all  that  draws  us  heart  to  heart 

Seems  fainter  now  and  now  more  clear. 

To-night  Love  claims  his  full  control, 
And  with  desire  and  with  regret 

My  soul  this  hour  has  drawn  your  soul 
A  little  nearer  yet. 

Is  there  a  home  where  heavy  earth 

Melts  to  bright  air  that  breathes  no  pain, 
Where  water  leaves  no  thirst  again 

And  springing  fire  is  Love's  new  birth  ? 

If  faith  long  bound  to  one  true  goal 
May  there  at  length  its  hope  beget, 

My  soul  that  hour  shall  draw  your  soul 
For  ever  nearer  yet. 


THE  CLOUD  CONFINES.  310 


POSSESSION. 

THERE  is  a  cloud  above  the  sunset  hill, 

That  wends  and  makes  no  stay, 
For  its  goal  lies  beyond  the  fiery  west ; 
A  lingering  breath  no  calm  can  chase  away, 
The  onward  labor  of  the  wind's  last  will ; 
A  flying  foam  that  overleaps  the  crest 
Of  the  top  wave  :  and  in  possession  still 
A  further  reach  of  longing  ;  though  at  rest 

From  all  the  yearning  years, 
Together  in  the  bosom  of  that  day 
Ye  cling,  and  with  your  kisses  drink  your  tears. 


THE  CLOUD  CONFINES. 

THE  day  is  dark  and  the  night 

To  him  that  would  search  their  heart  j 
No  lips  of  cloud  that  will  part 
Nor  morning  song  in  the  light : 
Only,  gazing  alone, 
To  him  \vild  shadows  are  shown, 
Deep  under  deep  unknown 
And  height  above  unknown  height. 
Still  we  say  as  we  go, — 

"  Strange  to  think  by  the  way, 
Whatever  there  is  to  know, 
That  shall  we  know  one  day." 

The  Past  is  over  and  fled  ; 

Named  new,  we  name  it  the  old  ; 

Thereof  some  tale  hath  been  told, 
But  no  word  comes  from  the  dead ; 

Whether  at  all  they  be, 

Or  whether  as  bond  or  free, 

Or  whether  they  too  were  we, 


320 


Or  by  what  spell  they  have  sped. 
Still  we  say  as  we  go, — 

"  Strange  to  think  by  the  way, 
Whatever  there  is  to  know, 

That  shall  we  know  one  day." 

What  of  the  heart  of  hate 

That  beats  in  thy  breast,  O  Time  ?  — 
Red  strife  from  the  furthest  prime, 
And  anguish  of  fierce  debate  ; 
War  that  shatters  her  slain, 
And  peace  that  grinds  them  as  grain, 
And  eyes  fixed  ever  in  vain 
On  the  pitiless  eyes  of  Fate. 

Still  we  say  as  we  go, — 

"  Strange  to  think  by  the  way, 
Whatever  there  is  to  know, 
That  shall  we  know  one  day." 

What  of  the  heart  of  love 

That  bleeds  in  thy  breast,  O  Man  ?  — 
Thy  kisses  snatched  'nealh  the  ban 
Of  fangs  that  mock  them  above  ; 
Thy  bells  prolonged  unto  knells, 
Thy  hope  that  a  breath  dispels, 
Thy  bitter  forlorn  farewells 
And  the  empty  echoes  thereof  ? 
Still  we  say  as  we  go, — 

"  Strange  to  think  by  the  way, 
Whatever  there  is  to  know, 
That  shall  we  know  one  day." 

The  sky  leans  dumb  on  the  sea, 

Aweary  with  all  its  wings  ; 

And  oh  !  the  song  the  sea  sings 
Is  dark  everlastingly. 

Our  past  is  clean  forgot, 

Our  present  is  and  is  not, 

Our  future  's  a  sealed  seedplot, 


FOR  THE  HOL  Y  FA  MIL  Y. 

And  what  betwixt  them  are  we  ?  — 
We  who  say  as  we  go, — 

"  Strange  to  think  by  the  way, 
Whatever  there  is  to  know, 

That  shall  we  know  one  day." 


FOB 

THE  HOLY  FAMILY, 

BY    MICHELANGELO. 

(In    the  National    Gallery.*) 

TURN  not  the  prophet's  page,  O  Son  !     He  knew 
All  that  thou  hast  to  suffer,  and  hath  writ, 
Not  yet  thine  hour  of  knowledge.     Infinite 
The  sorrows  that  thy  manhood's  lot  must  rue 
And  dire  acquaintance  of  thy  grief.     That  clue 
The  spirits  of  thy  mournful  ministerings 
Seek  through  yon  scroll  in  silence.    For  these  things 
The  angels  have  desired  to  look  into. 

Still  before  Eden  waves  the  fiery  sword, — 

Her  Tree  of  Life  unransomed  :  whose  sad  Tree 
Of  Knowledge  yet  to  growth  of  Calvary 

Must  yield  its  Tempter, —  Hell  the  earliest  dead 
Of  Earth  resign, —  and  yet,  O  Son  and  Lord, 

The  Seed  o'  the  woman  bruise  the  serpent's  head. 


*  In  this  picture  the  Virgin  Mother  is  seen  withholding  from 
the  Child  Saviour  the  prophetic  writings  in  which  his  suffer- 
ings are  foretold.  Angelic  figures  beside  them  examine  a 
scroll. 

21 


323  FOR  SPRING. 

FOB 

SPRING, 

BY    SANDRO    BOTTICELLI. 

(In  the  Accademia  of  Florence?) 

WHAT  mask  of  what  old  wind-withered  New-Year 
Honors  this  Lady  ?  *     Flora,  wanton-eyed 
For  birth,  and  with   all  flowrets  prankt  and  pied  : 

Aurora,  Zephyrus,  with  mutual  cheer 

Of  clasp  and  kiss  :  the  Graces  circling  near, 

'Neath  bower-linked  arch  of  white  arms  glorified  : 
And  with  those  feathered  feet  which  hovering  glide 

O'er  Spring's  brief  bloom,  Hermes  the  harbinger. 

Birth-bare,  not  death-bare  yet,  the  young  stems  stand, 
This  Lady's  temple-columns  :  o'er  her  head 
Love  wings  his  shaft.     What  mystery  here  is  read 

Of  homage  or  of  hope  ?     But  how  command 

Dead  Springs  to  answer  ?    And  how  question  here 
These  mummers  of  that  wind-withered  New-Year  ? 


*  The  same  lady,  here  surrounded  by  the  mask  of  Spring. 
is  evidently  the  subject  of  a  portrait  by  Botticelli  formerly  in 
the  Pourtales  collection  in  Paris.  This  portrait  is  inscribed 
"  Smeralda  Bandinelli." 


FIVE  ENGLISH  POETS.  323 


FIVE   ENGLISH    POETS. 

I.    THOMAS    CHATTERTON. 

WITH  Shakspeare's  manhood  at  a  boy's  wild  heart, — 
Through  Hamlet's  doubt  to  Shakspeare  near  allied, 
And  kin  to  Milton  through  his  Satan's  pride, — 

At  Death's  sole  door  he  stooped,  and  craved  a  dart  ; 

And  to  the  dear  new  bower  of  England's  art, — 
Even  to  that  shrine  Time  else  had  deified, 
The  unuttered  heart  that  soared  against  his  side, — 

Drove  the  fell  point,  and  smote  life's  seals  apart. 


The  nested  home-loves,  noble  Chatterton  ; 
The  angel-trodden  stair  thy  soul  could  trace 
Up  Redcliffe's  spire  ;  and  in  the  world's  armed  space 
The  gallant  sword-play  :  —  these  to  many  an  one 
Are  sweet  for  ever  ;  as  thy  grave  unknown 
And  love-dream  of  thine  unrecorded  face. 


II.     WILLIAM     BLAKE. 

(To  FREDERICK  SHIELDS,  ON  HIS  SKETCH  OF  BLAKE'S  WORK- 
ROOM AND  DEATH-ROOM,  3,  FOUNTAIN  COURT,    STRAND.) 

THIS  is  the  place.     Even  here  the  dauntless  soul, 

The  unflinching  hand,  wrought  on  ;  till  in  that  nook, 

As  on  that  very  bed,  his  life  partook 
New  birth,  and  passed.     Yon  river's  dusky  shoal, 
"Whereto  the  close-built  couing  lanes  unroll, 

Faced  his  work-window,  whence  his  eyes  would 
stare, 

Thought-wandering,    unto  naught  that  met  them 

there, 
But  to  the  unfettered  irreversible  goal. 


324  FIVE  LXGL1SH  POETS. 

This  cupboard,  Holy  of  Holies,  held  the  cloud 
Of  his  soul  writ  and  limned  ;  this  other  one, 

His  true  wife's  charge,  full  oft  to  their  abode 
Yielded  for  daily  bread  the  martyr's  stone, 
Ere  yet  their  food  might  be  that  Bread  alone, 

The  words  now  home-speech  of  the  mouth  of  God. 


III.    SAMUEL  TAYLOR   COLERIDGE. 

His  soul  fared  forth  (as  from  the  deep  home-grove 
The  father-songster  plies  the  hour-long  quest,) 
To  feed  his  soul-brood  hungering  in  the  nest ; 

But  his  warm  Heart,  the  mother-bird,  above 

Their  callow  fledgling  progeny  still  hove 

With  tented  roof  of  wings  and  fostering  breast 
Till  the  Soul  fed  the  soul-brood.     Richly  blest 

From  Heaven  their  growth,  whose  food  was  human 
Love. 

Yet  ah  !  Like  desert  pools  that  show  the  stars 

Once  in   long  leagues, —  even    such   the    scarce- 
snatched  hours 
Which     deepening     pain     left     to     his    lordliest 

powers  :  — 

Heaven  lost  through  spider -trammeled  prison-bars. 
Six  years,  from  sixty  saved  !  Yet  kindling  skies 
Own  them,  a  beacon  to  our  centuries. 


IV.  JOHN  KEATS. 

THE  weltering  London  ways  where  children  weep 
And  girls  whom  none  call  maidens  laugh, —  strange 

road 
Miring  his  outward  steps,  who  inly  trode 

The  bright  Castalian  brink  and  Latmos'  steep  :  — 

Even  such  his  life's  cross-paths  ;  till  deathly  deep, 
He  toiled  through  sands  of  Lethe  ;  and  long  pain, 
Weary  with  labor  spurned  and  love  found  vain. 

In  dead  Rome's  sheltering  shadow  wrapped  his  sleep. 


FIVE  ENGLISH  POETS,  325 

O  pang-dowered  Poet, whose  reverberant  lips 
And  heart-strung  lyre  awoke  the  Moon's  eclipse, — 

Thou  whom  the  'daisies  glory  in  growing  o'er, — 
Their  fragrance  clings  around  thy  name,  not  writ 
But  rumor'd  in  water,  while  the  fame  of  it 

Along  Time's  flood  goes  echoing  evermore. 

V.  PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 

(INSCRIPTION  FOR    THE    COUCH,     STILL  PRESERVED,  ON  WHICH 
HE  PASSED  THE  LAST  SIGHT  OF  HIS  LIFE.) 

'TwiXT  those  twin   worlds, —  the   world    of    Sleep, 

which  gave 

No  dream  to  warn, —  the  tidal  wor,ld  of  Death, 
Which  the  earth's  sea,  as  the  earth,  replenisheth, — 

Shelley,  Song's  orient  sun,  to  breast  the  wave, 

Rose  from  this  couch  that  morn.      Ah  !  did  he  brave 
Only  the  sea  ?  —  or  did  man's  deed  of  hell 
Engulf  his  bark  'mid  mists  impenetrable  ?  .  .  .  . 

No  eye  discerned,  nor  any  power  might  save. 

When  that  mist  cleared,  O  Shelley  !   what  dread  veil 
Was  rent  for  thee,  to  whom  far-darkling  Truth 
Reigned  sovereign  guide  through  thy  brief  ageless 

youth  ? 

Was  the   Truth  thy  Truth,  Shelley  ?  —  Hush  !    All- 
Hail, 
Past  doubt,  thou  gav'st  it ;    and  in  Truth's  bright 

sphere 
Art  first  of  praisers,  being  most  praised  here. 


326        THE  LAST  THREE  FROM  TRAFALGAR. 


TIBER,  NILE  AXD  THAMES. 

THE  heads  and  hands  of  murdered  Cicero, 

Above  his  seat  in  the  Forum  hung, 

Drew  jeers  and  burning  tears.     When  on  the  rung 
Of  a  swift  mounted  ladder,  all  aglow, 
Fulvia,  Mark  Antony's  shameless  wife,  with  show 

Of  foot  firm-poised  and  gleaming  arm  upflung, 

Bade  her  sharp  needle  pierce  that  god-like  tongue 
Whose  speech  fed  Rome  even  as  the  Tiber's  flow. 

And  thou,  Cleopatra's  Xeedle,  that  hadst  thrid 
Great  skirts  of  Time  ere  she  and  Antony  hid 

Dead  hope  !  —  hast    thou  too   reached,  surviving 

death, 

A  city  of  sweet  speech  scorned, —  on  whose  chill  stone 
Keats  withered,  Coleridge  pined,  and  Chatterton, 

Breadless,  with  poison  froze  the  God-fired  breath  ? 


THE  LAST  THREE  FROM  TRAFALGAR, 

AT   THE    ANNIVERSARY    BANQUET, 

21sT  OCTOBER,  187*. 

IN*  grappled  ships  around  the  Victory, 

Three  boys  did  England's  Duty  with  stout  cheer, 
While  one  dread  truth  was  kept  from  every  ear, 

More  dire  than  deafening  fire  that  churned  the  sea  ; 

For  in  the  flag-ship's  weltering  cockpit,  he 
Who  was  the  Battle's  Heart  without  a  peer, 
He  who  had  seen  all  fearful  sights  save  Fear, 

Was  passing  from  all  life  save  Victory. 

And  round  the  old  memorial  board  to-day, 

Three  graybeards  —  each  a  warworn  British  Tar- 
View  through  the  mist  of  years  that  hour  afar  : 
Who  soon  shall  greet,  'mid  memories  of  fierce  fray, 
The  impassioned  soul  which  on  its  radiant  way 
Soared  through  the  fiery  cloud  of  Trafalgar. 


WORDS  ON  THE  WIXDO  W-PANB.  827 

CZAR  ALEXANDER  THE  SECOND. 
(13xH  MARCH,  1881.) 

FROM  him  did  forty  million  serfs,  endow'd 
Each  with  six  feet  of  death-due  soil,  receive 
Rich  freeborn  lifelong  land,  whereon  to  sheave 

Their  country's  harvest.     These  to-day  aloud 

Demand  of  Heaven  a  Father's  blood, —  sore  bow'd 
"With  tears  and  thrilled  with  wrath  ;  who,  while  they 

grieve, 
On  every  guilty  head  would  fain  achieve 

All  torment  by  his  edicts  disallow'd. 
• 

He  stayed  the  knout's  red-ravening  fangs  ;  and  first 
Of  Russian  traitors,  his  own  murderers  go 
White  to  the  tomb.     While  he, —  laid  foully  low 
"With  limbs  red-rent,  with  festering  brain  which  erst 
"Willed  kingly  freedom, — 'gainst  the  deed  accurst 
To  God  bears  witness  of  his  people's  woe. 


WORDS  ON  THE  WINDOW-PANE.* 

DID  she  in  summer  write  it,  or  in  spring, 
Or  with  this  wail  of  autumn  at  her  ears, 
Or  in  some  winter  left  among  old  years 

Scratched  it  through  tettered  cark  ?    A  certain  thing 

That  round  her  heart  the  frost  was  hardening, 
Not  to  be  thawed  of  tears,  which  on  this  pane 
Channeled  the  rime,  perchance,  in  fevered  rain, 

For  false  man's  sake  and  love's  most  bitter  sting. 


*  For  a  woman's  fragmentary  inscription. 


328  SPRIATG. 

Howbeit,  between  this  last  word  and  the  next 
Unwritten,  subtly  seasoned  was  the  smart, 

And  here  at  least  the  grace  to  weep  :  if  she, 
Rather,  midway  in  her  disconsolate  text, 
Rebelled  not,  loathing  from  the  trodden  heart 

That  thing  which  she  had  found  man's  love  to  be. 


WINTER. 

How  large  that  thrush  looks  on  the  bare  thorn-tree  1 
A  swarm  of  such,  three  little  months  ago, 
Had  hidden  in  the  leaves  and  let  none  know 

Save  by  the  outburst  of  their  minstrelsy. 

A  white  flake  here  and  there  —  a  snow-lily 

Of  last  night's  frost  —  our  naked  flower-beds  hold; 
And  for  a  rose-flower  on  the  darkling  mold 

The  hungry  redbreast  gleams.     No  bloom,  no  bee. 

The  current  shudders  to  its  ice-bound  sedge  : 
Nipped  in  their  bath,  the  stark  reeds  one  by  one 
Flash  each  its  clinging  diamond  in  the  sun  : 
'Neath  winds  which  for  this  Winter's  sovereign  pledge 
Shall  curb  great  king-masts  to  the  ocean's  edge 
And  leave  memorial  forest-kings  o'erthrown. 


SPRING. 

SOFT-LITTERED  is  the  new-year's  lambing-fold, 
And  in  the  hollowed  haystack  at  its  side 
The  shepherd  lies  o'  nights  now,  wakeful-eyed 

At  the  ewes'  travailing  call  through  the  dark  cold. 

The  young  rooks  cheep  'mid  the  thick  caw  o'  the  old : 
And  near  unpeopled  stream-sides,  on  the  ground, 
By  her  spring-cry  the  moorhen's  nest  is  found, 

Where  the  drained  flood-lands  flaunt  their  marigold. 


UNTIMEL  Y  LOST.  829 

Chill  are  the  gusts  to  which  the  pastures  cower, 
And  chill  the  current  where  the  young  reeds  stand 
As  green  and  close  as  the  young  wheat  on  land  : 
Yet  here  the  cuckoo  and  the  cuckoo-flower 
Plight  to  the  heart  Spring's  perfect  imminent  hour 
Whose  breath  shall  soothe  you  like  your  dear  one's 
hand. 


THE  CHURCH-PORCH. 

SISTER,  first  shake  we  off  the  dust  we  have 
Upon  our  feet,  lest  it  defile  the  stones 
Inscriptured,  covering  their  sacred  bones 

Who  lie  i'  the  aisles  which  keep  the  names  they  gave, 

Their  trust  abiding  round  them  in  the  grave  ; 
Whom  painters  paint  for  visible  orisons, 
And  to  whom  sculptors  pray  in  stone  and  bronze  ; 

Their  voices  echo  still  like  a  spent  wave. 

Without  here,  the  church-bells  are  but  a  tune, 
And  on  the  carven  church-door  this  hot  noon 

Lays  all  its  heavy  sunshine  here  without ; 
But  having  entered  in,  we  shall  find  there 
Silence,  and  sudden  dimness,  and  deep  prayer, 

And  faces  of  crowned  angels  all  about. 


UNTIMELY  LOST. 

(OLIVER  MADOX  BROWN.     BORN  1855  : 
DIED   1874.) 

UPON  the  landscape  of  his  coming  life 

A  youth  high-gifted  gazed,  and  found  it  fair  : 
The  heights  of  work,  the  floods  of  praise,  were  there. 

What    friendships,    what    desires,   what  love,    what 
wife?  — 


330  PLACE  DE  LA  BASTILLE,  PARIS. 

All  things  to  come.     The  fanned  springtide  was  rife 
With  imminent  solstice  ;  and  the  ardent  air 
Had  summer  sweets  and  autumn  fires  to  bear  ;  — 

Heart's  ease  full-pulsed  with  perfect  strength  for  strife. 

A  mist  has  risen  :  we  see  the  youth  no  more  : 
Does  he  see  on  and  strive  on  ?     And  may  we 
Late-tottering  worldworn  hence,  find  his  to  be 

Th,e  young  strong  hand  which  helps  us  up  that  shore  ? 

Or  echoing  the  No  More  with  Nevermore, 
Must  Night  be  ours  and  his  ?    We  hope  :  and  he  ? 


PLACE  DE  LA  BASTILLE,  PARIS. 

How  dear  the  sky  has  been  above  this  place  ! 
Small  treasures  of  this  sky  that  we  see  here 
Seen  weak  through  prison-bars  from  year  to  year  ; 

Eyed  with  a  painful  prayer  upon  God's  grace 

To  save,  and  tears  that  stayed  along  the  face 
Lifted  at  sunset.     Yea,  how  passing  dear, 
Those  nights  when  through  the  bars  a  wind  left  clear 

The  heaven,  and  moonnght  soothed  the  limpid  space  ! 

So  was  it,  till  one  night  the  secret  kept 
Safe  in  low  vault  and  stealthy  corridor 

Was  blown  abroad  on  gospel-tongues  of  flame. 
O  ways  of  God,  mysterious  evermore  ! 
How  many  on  this  spot  have  cursed  and  wept 

That  all  might  stand  here  now  and  own  Thy  Name. 


A  SEA-SPELL.  831 

«  FOUND." 

(FOE  A  PICTURE.) 

"  THERE  is  a  budding  morrow  in  midnight  :  "  — 
So  sang  our  Keats,  our  English  nightingale. 
And  hero,  as  lamps  across  the  bridge  turn  pale 

In  London's  smokeless  resurrection-light, 

Dark  breaks  to  dawn.     But  o'er  the  deadly  blight 
Of  love  deflowered  and  sorrow  of  none  avail 
Which  makes  this  man  gasp  and  this  woman  quail, 

Can  day  f rcm  darkness  ever  again  take  flight  ? 

Ah  !  gave  not  these  two  hearts  their  mutual  pledge, 
Under  one  mantle  sheltered  'neath  the  hedge 

In  gloaming  courtship  ?    And  O  God  !  to-day 
He  only         ws  he  holds  her  ;  —  but  what  part 
Can  life  now  take  ?     She  cries  in  her  locked  heart, — 

"  Leave  me  —  I  do  not  know  you  —  go  away  ! " 


A   SEA-SPELL. 

(FOR  A  PICTURE.) 

HER  lute  hangs  shadowed  in  the  apple-tree, 

While  flashing  fingers  weave  the  sweet-strung  spell 
Between  its  chords  ;  and  as  the  wild  notes  swell, 

The  sea-bird  for  those  branches  leaves  the  sea. 

But  to  what  sound  her  listening  ear  stoops  she  ? 
What  netherworld  gulf- whispers  doth  she  hear, 
In  answering  echoes  from  what  planisphere, 

Along  the  wind,  along  the  estuary  ? 

She  sinks  into  her  spell :  and  when  full  soon 
Her  lips  move  and  she  soars  into  her  song, 
What  creatures  of  the  midmost  main  shall  throng 

In  furrowed  surf -clouds  to  the  summoning  rune  : 
Till  he,  the  fated  mariner,  hears  her  cry, 
And  up  her  rock,  bare-breasted,  comes  to  die  ? 


883  THE  DA  Y-DREAM. 

FIAMMETTA. 

(FOR  A  PICTURE.) 

BEHOLD  Fiammetta,  shown  in  Vision  here. 

Gloom-girt  'mid   Spring-flushed  apple-growth  she 
stands  ; 

And  as  she  sways  the  branches  with  her  hands, 
Along  her  arm  the  sundered  bloom  falls  sheer 
In  separate  petals  shed,  each  like  a  tear  ; 

While  from  the  quivering  bough  the  bird  expands 

His  wings.     And  lo  !  thy  spirit  understands 
Life  shaLen  and  shower'd  and  flown,  and  Death  drawn 
near. 

All  stirs  with  change.     Her  garments  beat  the  air  : 
The  angel  circling  round  her  aureole 
Shimmers  in  flight  against  the  tree's  gray  bole  : 
While  she,  with  reassuring  eyes  most  fair, 
A  presage  and  a  promise  stands  ;  as  'twere 

On  Death's  dark  storm  the  rainbow  of  the  Soul 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 

(FOE  A  PICTURE.) 

THE  thronged  boughs  of  the  shadowy  sycamore 
Still  bear  young  leaflets  half  the  summer  through 
From  when  the  robin  'gainst  the  unhidden  blue 

Perched  dark,  till  now,  deep  in  the  leafy  core, 

The  embowered  throstle's  urgent  wood-notes  soar 
Through  summer  silence.  Still  the  leaves  come  new 
Yet  never  rosy-sheathed  as  those  which  drew 

Their  spiral  tongues  from  spring-buds  heretofore. 


PROSERPINA.  ft 

Within  the  branching  shade  of  Reverie 

Dreams  even  may  spring  till  autumn  :  yet  none  be 

Like  woman's  budding  day-dream  spint-fann'd. 
Lo  !  tow'rd  deep  skies,  not  deeper  than  her  look, 
She  dreams  ;  till  now  on  her  forgotten  book 

Drops  the  forgotten  blossom  from  her  hand. 


ASTARTE  SYRIACA. 
(FOR  A  PICTURE.) 

MYSTERY  :  lo  !  betwixt  the  sun  and  moon 
Astarte  of  the  Syrians  :  Venus  Queen 
Ere  Aphrodite  was.     In  silver  sheen 

Her  twofold  girdle  clasps  the  infinite  boon 

Of  bliss  whereof  the  heaven  and  earth  commune  : 
And  from  her  neck's  inclining  flower-stem  lean 
Love-freighted  lips  and  absolute  eyes  that  wean 

The  pulse  of  hearts  to  the  spheres'  dominant  tune. 

Torch-bearing,  her  sweet  ministers  compel 
All  thrones  of  light  beyond  the  sky  and  sea 
The  witnesses  of  Beauty's  face  to  be  : 

That  face,  of  Love's  all-penetrative  spell 

Amulet,  talisman,  and  oracle, — 

Betwixt  the  sun  and  moon  a  mystery. 


PROSERPINA. 

(PER  UN  QUADRO.) 

LUNGI  e  la  luce  che  in  su  questo  muro 
Rifrange  appena,  un  breve  istante  scorta 
Del  rio  palazzo  alia  soprana  porta. 


334  PROSERPINA. 

Lungi  quei  fiori  d'Enna,  O  lido  oscuro, 
Dal  frutto  tuo  fatal  che  omai  m'e  duro. 

Lungi  quel  cielo  dal  tartareo  manto 

Che  qui  mi  cuopre  :  e  lungi  ahi  lungi  ahi  quanto 
Le  notti  che  saran  dai  dl  che  f  uro. 

Lungi  da  me  mi  sento  ;  e  ognor  sognando 
Cerco  e  ricerco,  e  rusto  ascoltatrice  ; 
E  qualche  cuore  a  qualche  anima  dice, 

(Di  cui  mi  giunge  il  suon  da  quando  in  quando, 

Continuamente  insieme  sospirando,)  — 
"  Oime  per  te,  Proserpina  infelice  1  " 


PROSERPINA. 
(FOR  A  PICTURE.) 

AFAR  away  the  light  that  brings  cold  cheer 
Unto  this  wall, —  one  instant  and  no  more 
Admitted  at  my  distant  palace-door. 

Afar  the  flowers  of  Enna  from  this  drear 

Dire  fruit,  which,  tasted  once,  must  thrall  me  here. 
Afar  those  skies  from  this  Tartarean  gray 
That  chills  me  :  and  afar,  how  far  away, 

The  nights  that  shall  be  from  the  days  that  were. 

Afar  from  mine  own  self  I  seem,  -and  wing 

Strange  ways  in  thought,  and  listen  for  a  sign  : 
And  still  some  heart  unto  some  soul  doth  pine, 

(Whose  sounds  mine  inner  sense  is  fain  to  bring, 

Continually  together  murmuring,)  — 

"  Woe's  me  for  thee,  unhappy  Proserpine  ! " 


LA  BELLA  MANO.  835 

LA  BELLA  MANO. 

(PEE  UN  QUADRO.) 

O  BELLA  Mano,  che  ti  lavi  e  piaci 
In  quel  medesmo  tuo  puro  elemento 
Donde  la  Dea  dell'  araorso  avvento 

Nacque,  (e  dall'  onda  s'infuocar  le  faci 

Di  mille  inispegnibili  sornaci)  :  — 
Come  a  Venere  a  te  1'oro  e  1'arganto 
Offron  gli  Araori ;  e  ognun  riguarda  attento 

La  bocca  che  sorride  e  te  che  taci. 

In  dolce  modo  dove  onor  t'  invii 

Vattene  odorna,  e  porta  insiem  fra  tante 
Di  Venere  e  di  vergine  sembiante  : 

Umil  emente  in  luoghi  onesti  e  pii 

Bianca  e  soave  ognora  ;  infin  che  sii 
O  Mano,  mansueta  in  man  d'amante. 


LA  BELLA  MANO. 

(FOR  A  PICTURE.) 

O  LOVELY  hand,  that  thy  sweet  self  dost  lave 
In  that  thy  pure  and  proper  element, 
Whence  erst  the  Lady  of  Love's  high  advent 

Was  born,  and  endless  fires  sprang  from  the  wave:  — • 

Even  as  her  Loves  to  her  their  offerings  gave, 

For  thee  the  jeweled  gifts  they  bear  ;  while  each 
Looks  to  those  lips,  of  music-measured  speech 

The  fount,  and  of  more  bliss  than  man  can  crave. 


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336  LA  BELLA  MANO. 

In  royal  wise  ring-girt  and  bracelet-spann'd, 
A  flower  of  Venus'  own  virginity, 

Go  shine  among  thy  sisterly  sweet  band  ; 
In  maiden-minded  converse  delicately 
Evermore  white  and  soft ;    until  thou  be, 

O  hand  !  heart-handsel'd  in  a  lover's  hand. 


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